


Highway of Endless Dreams

by fultimeinternet



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe, F/F, Mutual Pining, Romance, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-20
Updated: 2018-05-07
Packaged: 2018-10-21 23:24:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 41,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10685052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fultimeinternet/pseuds/fultimeinternet
Summary: Hana Song is a professional gamer and reigning Starcraft II champion also known as D.Va. She is a beloved online celebrity in her home country of South Korea and number 1 ranked player in the world.Angela Ziegler is a Swiss orthopedic surgeon, brilliant in her line of work and currently spending her career as a traveling doctor, taking a locum tenens position with temporary residence in Tokyo, Japan.Two strangers with seemingly nothing in common. One chance encounter. It all starts with a departure.





	1. Overture

**Author's Note:**

> Click [here](http://68.media.tumblr.com/c519fd4b3842155aa0b7ae695c2db53e/tumblr_ovqlap9yra1r9xc65o1_1280.png) to see the amazing fanart tumblr user _aurorajames_ did for this fic.

“It looks like my flight has been delayed,” Angela says into the phone, frowning in disappointment as her eyes scan the noticeboard displaying departures, many of the green letters blinking to indicate delays or cancellations.

“ _Oh, no, I am sorry to hear that,_ ” Mei tells her, in a genuinely sympathetic tone. “ _That is very unfortunate_.”

“It is,” Angela heaves a quiet sigh. After sitting through one long queue after another since her and Mei parted ways at the entrance of the airport – going through the time consuming procedures of security check and customs inspection – this is the last thing Angela needed but, as usual, the punctuality of the airline industry leaves a lot to be desired. “However, it can’t be helped. And it’s hardly unexpected to be quite honest.”

She hears a single ding go off on the speakers before a woman’s voice comes on, broadcasting an announcement, first in Chinese, then in English. Her accent is nearly indecipherable and it forces Angela to pay close attention, straining her ears to understand what is being said. She listens to them confirm the delayed departure of her flight to Tokyo – due to technical difficulties apparently – followed by token apologies for the inconveniences caused.

“ _How long did they say it will take?_ ”

Angela checks her watch – habitually worn with the face on the inside of her left wrist. “Three hours or so,” she says, readjusting the strap of her carry-on bag over her shoulder. She pulls her eyes away from the flight information screen, keenly aware of the surging presence of the crowd all around her. There are passengers dashing here and there, all trying to get somewhere.

When she turns around, someone accidentally slams into her shoulder, offering a half-hearted apology as they shuffle towards one of the departure gates without pausing. It happens so fast that Angela has barely any time to react. But it’s not as though she would have caused a scene either way. She understands the urgency that comes with places such as airports.

She wedges the phone between her head and her shoulder for a moment while she tries to find her boarding pass. Fishing it out of the inner pocket of her coat, she double-checks the gate number on it before slipping it back in. She readjusts her bag more firmly over her shoulder, then she presses the phone closer to her ear just in time to catch the tail of the sentence Mei has been uttering: “ _—must be dreadful._ ”

“I’m sorry, Mei,” Angela tells her, feeling genuinely apologetic for not paying enough attention. “What were you saying?”

She hears her friend chuckle on the other end of the line. “ _I said the sense of agitation there must be dreadful._ ”

Angela smiles and finds herself nodding even though Mei can’t see her. “It’s not quite so bad,” she says as she picks a path through the crowded terminal. Her eyes roam around, taking in her surroundings. “It could be worse.”

Which is true, as far as Angela is concerned. There are certainly worse places to be stuck in – places such as cramped medical tents in refugee camps stretched across the stifling hot and sandy lands of Iraq, for instance.

Her ankle boots click loudly against the tiled floor now as she walks past a row of wide, paneled windows overlooking the runways, where the planes are lined up. The sun is low in the sky, draping the scenery in a honey-colored light that filters in and blends almost naturally with the warm colors inside the airport. Frankly, Angela expected this airport in particular to be far more frenetic and loud compared to the rest, considering that this is Beijing, the capital city of the most populous country in the world. But instead, there’s something rather tranquil about it – a spatial clarity that makes her feel comfortable and welcome in spite of all the agitation around the long terminal.

“ _Yes, I can see what you mean,_ ” Mei says, her voice cutting into Angela’s stream of thoughts and the budding moment of silence. “ _Personally, after all those months spent in that secluded monitoring station in Antarctica, away from civilization... I must say that I have actually missed the bustle of people and this constant sense of motion—_ ” A loud car honk blares out in the background, filling the air for a few long seconds, and Mei heaves a quiet sigh before adding, “ _Well,_ _except for this, of course._ _I definitely did not miss the polluted air of the city_.”

Angela stifles a chuckle as she pictures Mei on the other end of the line, sitting in the backseat of the taxi cab and wrinkling her nose in distaste at the long chain of cars stuck in commuter traffic, with their engines spitting clouds of exhaust into the late afternoon haze. It must be nothing short of a haphazard affair; slow and grinding.

“ _Still, it’s good to be back home,_ ” Mei says, at last, her voice laced with contentment and getting mixed with a tiny giggle as she goes on, “ _Though I can't stick around for too long. My travel blog won't write itself, after all._ ”

“Of course,” Angela chimes in, slowing her pace as she listens to Mei talk enthusiastically about one of her upcoming expeditions. Angela can’t help a bit of a fond smile. She has known Mei for many years now, having met her back when Angela was in her first year of residency and they both happened to be doing occasional volunteering service for the same international NGO. That was a time in both of their lives when youth made everything seem possible and their minds were blissfully filled with idealistic visions of a brighter, better future for the world they live in.

But, as it usually goes, somewhere along the road, to Angela, those ideas became abstract, theoretical. She never stopped _hoping_ they could change things, on a larger scale, but to Mei, it never stopped being a reality waiting to happen. To Mei, saving the planet remained a cause worth fighting for, as passionately as ever. Without shred of a doubt, Mei never stopped _believing_ that she _can_ succeed in preserving the world for future generations and that is precisely why Angela has always found her to be truly admirable.

She hears her friend mutter something in Chinese to the cab driver now and Angela figures she must have reached her destination.

“ _Thank you again for taking the time to come visit me, Angela. It was wonderful to see you again!_ ”

“You too, Mei.”

“ _I have to go now but I’ll talk to you soon! Have a safe flight!_ ”

“Thank you,” Angela says. “I’ll message you as soon as I arrive at the hotel. Goodbye.”

She hangs up and for a long moment, she just stands there like that, with the phone still held tightly in her hand, as her eyes instinctively drift to the tarmac, outside the wide windows. The sky is darkening by the minute and the pinpricks of light that outline the planes are beginning to flicker to life, and Angela feels an unmistakable rush of elation as she watches a plane slowly prepare for take-off.

She can’t help it. She closes her eyes and she imagines herself among those passengers, as the plane begins to pick up speed, barreling down the runway with a rush of noise until, with a final bounce of the wheels, it starts climbing higher and higher, above the clouds.

In her mind’s eye, Angela can already see the lights below fade into pixelated grids, everything growing distant and blending together until the ground beneath disappears altogether and she is surrounded by nothing but the vast and endless sky…

When she opens her eyes, that plane is already gone, and Angela can make out her reflection in the glass: all blonde hair and tired eyes. But the thought of boarding a plane was enough to make her smile. Of course. No wonder. Angela has always loved flying. It’s something that started with her father. Once upon a time, when life was simpler and her father still alive, when he’d tell her stories of how he used to fly with other soldiers across wide-open skies. He’d often tell Angela that she has his eyes – the eyes of someone who longs for that simple kind of freedom.

She can feel the way her smile begins to fade away now and she pulls herself out of her thoughts, with a soft sigh.

She turns to survey the rows of padded chairs in the waiting area. Surprisingly enough, most of them are unoccupied and thankfully, there are no crying infants causing a ruckus or anything of sorts. Overall, it looks peacefully quiet; exactly how Angela prefers it.

She picks an empty seat by the windows, dropping her bag on the floor as she settles down. She rubs at her wrists a couple of times then she props an elbow on the armrest and slowly massages her temple. She keeps an ear out for any announcements that may have anything to do with her flight as she periodically checks the overhead monitors and the news feed and weather reports on her phone.

She chances a glance at her wristwatch every now and then, the minutes ticking by so slowly that it’s almost as though someone is playing an elaborate prank on her. Now, Angela has always considered herself a patient person by all means. She thinks it’s in her nature. But even so, there is only so much patience one can muster in these type of situations when time simply seems to be moving at snail’s pace.

Angela stifles a yawn as her eyes start to roam around, skipping aimlessly from one stranger to the next, like changing television channels.

There is someone behind her quietly flipping through the pages of a book. There is a boy with headphones a couple of seats to the right and Angela can hear the low thump of music. There is a man in a suit across the aisle, hunched low over his cup of coffee and tapping his foot as he waits, and for a second there, Angela thinks that maybe she could use some coffee, too. But as a doctor, she thinks better of it. She knows that it’s undisputedly a terrible idea. After all, she’d rather avoid the risk of dehydration or even worse: a dreaded case of ‘jet bloat’.

She glances over to where an elderly man is fast asleep, with his chin tucked against his chest and a bucket hat pulled low over his face, and it makes her think of Reinhardt. As she recalls their phone conversation from just two days ago, Angela feels a small smile tug at the corners of her mouth. There wasn’t anything special about it. Not at all. In fact, it was no different from how their usual conversations go, but talking with Reinhardt always comes with a certain sense of warm familiarity. It's something she cherishes.

Nowadays, he is always getting overly excited about the prospect of a new ‘adventure’ he could embark on. Well, he has been that way for as long as Angela can remember but he is not getting any younger. Though, of course, that’s not something he will ever admit to. And whenever Angela reminds him to take his pills and rest, there’s a note of stubborn defensiveness in his gruff voice that never fails to make her laugh.

 _Perhaps she should give him a call or message him_ , Angela ponders, staring at her phone. Her thumb hovers absently over the screen while she attempts to calculate the hours between Beijing and Hamburg, when she hears a pair of hurried footsteps approaching. Angela’s eyes immediately start seeking the source of that noise and when she looks to her right she sees that they belong to a girl who is striding down the aisle, getting closer and closer.

Now, in all honesty, Angela will never understand the fascination some people have with wearing sunglasses indoors, but there is something completely effortless about this girl – a casual confidence that is a little unnerving even from a distance, even without _knowing_ her. This girl looks like she came straight out of a photo shoot for a magazine cover and it makes Angela straighten up in her seat, feeling a little self-conscious all of a sudden. She flicks her gaze back to her phone, fiddling with it before slipping it back into the pocket of her coat.

She’ll message Reinhardt in the morning when there is no risk of waking him up in the middle of the night.

Meanwhile, the girl’s footsteps slow down until she stops, just a few feet away from where Angela is sitting.

And she simply stands there for a moment, with her backpack slung over one shoulder, as though she can’t decide yet whether she wants to sit down or not. She runs a hand through her hair and Angela’s eyes sweep indulgently over the length of her, slowly taking in the skin-tight leather pants and the denim jacket – a combination that looks all too natural on her. It manages to distract Angela to the point where, embarrassingly enough, she gets a little startled when the girl suddenly steps closer. Letting her backpack slip from her shoulder, she dumps it on the floor, so close to Angela’s right foot that it nudges a little into her ankle. Then, with a soft groan, the girl slumps into the seat next to her and Angela shifts a little, instinctively moving her leg out of the way to give her some space. Because Angela feels the need to be considerate. Even though there are plenty of other unoccupied seats that this girl could have taken which aren’t directly next to Angela.

Anyhow, she chooses not to dwell too much on that aspect and she lets her eyes drift back to the windows, deciding to mind her own business. In the silence that follows, though, in spite of her resolve, Angela can’t help sneaking a sideways glance at her, every now and then.

Well, it would be quite hard _not_ to pay attention when she fidgets so much. Angela is inclined to believe that this girl has either had one too many energy drinks before coming here or she is sleep deprived to the point where her tiredness manifests itself into complete alertness.

And watching her now as she plays some game on her phone, working the buttons on the screen with a kind of ferocious intensity, her legs keep on bobbing, and almost every time she shifts a little in her seat, her knee manages to bump against Angela’s. It’s strange, but somehow, Angela finds that she doesn’t truly mind this constant spike of activity happening next to her. After all, it’s quite understandable, she thinks, under the given circumstances. The possibilities are countless, really. This girl could be feeling just as stiff and restless as Angela does. Or she could be feeling distressed, possibly even nervous about flying, and Angela briefly wonders if her flight is delayed as well.

Then, as if on cue, the intercom buzzes on, and they both perk up, straining their ears to listen to the announcement being made over the loudspeakers. Angela stops paying attention the second she hears the word _Seoul_ , her eyes skim dejectedly over one of the overhead monitors which, as expected, is still showing her flight as: _DELAYED._

She sighs as she eases back into her seat. From the corner of her eye, she notices the girl doing the exact same thing, with the same defeated air around her. She tucks her phone away then cracks her knuckles and Angela thinks it’s safe to assume that wasn’t her flight either. And this time, when their arms brush and Angela glances over, the girl catches her eye.

Angela's first instinct is to offer a smile; the understanding kind. Because there is a small degree of comfort in knowing that they can certainly empathize with one another right now.

And yet, Angela is still taken aback when this girl smiles back at her. There is a sort of unfamiliar electricity that goes through her right then – a sudden flutter of anticipation – as she watches this girl finally take her sunglasses off. Angela is caught breathless by how strangely intimate a simple motion like this can feel – very much so like watching someone strip naked in front of you. There’s something private about it, like being given the privilege to peek behind the curtains. Then Angela looks at her – really looks at her – for the first time.

She can see the deep brown of her eyes and something like a paradox underneath it all. This girl is someone with a long journey behind her and even longer journey ahead, Angela can tell. Her eyes seem so much older than the rest of her and she looks overworked and exhausted; tired in a bone-deep way that reminds Angela very much of her own self – both past and present.

Maybe that’s what really catches Angela off guard and it occurs to her now that she’s been staring for a few beats too long.

She blinks and looks away. Shifting around in her seat, feeling suddenly too visible, she crosses one leg over the other and tries to steer her mind clear of anything that has to do with what just happened.

 _It’s ridiculous,_ Angela tells herself. She doesn’t know a thing about this girl. She is simply overthinking it.

She casts a glance at her wristwatch, then realizes she forgot to actually pay attention to the numbers and she has to look again.

She bites back a sigh as she plucks an invisible piece of lint from one of her sleeves. She tries to relax, busying herself with counting the airplanes out the windows until she feels her eyelids slowly starting to droop. She wonders if she should allow herself to catch some shut-eye.

The waiting area is blissfully tranquil now and every little sound seems hollow, faraway, somehow. The faint beat of music coming from that boy’s headphones, the soft flap of pages being turned by whoever is reading a book behind her, the occasional shuffling of tired passengers trying their best to endure the long hours before departing.

Angela hears the girl yawn beside her and by chain reaction, Angela tries to suppress a small yawn of her own.

She leans back into her seat, snuggling into her coat.

Outside the sky has gone fully dark and she can see their blurred reflections in the glass. With the twinkling lights of the tarmac glinting at them through the windows, there are dozens of other travelers scattered around them, but it somehow feels as if they are completely alone.

And Angela can feel it – that mutual sense of quiet understanding in the air between them. An unspoken consolation between two stranded travelers. A silent comradery of sorts. Because they are in this together, even if just for a while. In some ways, that’s the undeniable allure of airports, Angela thinks. They are neither here nor there, they are suspended between one place and another – briefly, temporarily nowhere.

Just the two of them.

 

Angela feels a small smile tug at her lips as the world grows faint and hazy around her and her eyelids flutter shut.

 

 

 

 

She wakes up feeling a little disoriented, with an airport announcement flitting in and out of her consciousness.

“ _All passengers… bound for Paris…_ ”

 

Angela blinks her eyes open, slowly. Her joints are starting to ache a little after sleeping in a relatively cramped position and she tries to shift in her seat. In the midst of this uncertain wakefulness, however, there are several sensations that register all at once: _something_ is pinning her into place and _something_ is tickling at her cheek.

She turns her head enough to catch a glimpse of brown hair and she’s instantly aware of the presence beside her. The girl is apparently still sound asleep, with her head comfortably pillowed on Angela’s shoulder. Her elbow is brushing against Angela’s on their shared armrest and when Angela glances down, she notices that her right leg is only inches away from the girl’s left one – thankfully the bags at their feet are still there, too, safe and untouched. Angela curls her toes inside her boots and looks away, trying to calm the odd stutter in her chest.

She squints through bleary eyes at her wristwatch. It’s barely been twenty minutes but it feels as though she’s been asleep for much, much longer. There are no changes to the departure schedule of her flight either. She draws in a breath, tapping her fingers against her thigh. Every part of her tingles with a kind of inexplicable, nervous energy at the sudden nearness of this girl, at the casual way she’s positioned herself so close to Angela.

She closes her eyes for a moment, allowing herself the illusion of privacy while she tries to fight back the embarrassment she feels at this whole situation. She ponders over what she should do and it occurs to her then that she has no clue where this girl is going. Clearly, the right and wise thing to do would be to wake her up.

_She **should** wake her up, shouldn’t she? Of course she should. What if she misses her flight?_

Angela doesn’t want to share the blame if that were to happen so the course of action here is obvious. But when she glances over and she sees how peaceful the girl looks right now, with her arms loosely crossed over her chest and her cheek buried into the woolen material of Angela’s coat... She is starting to have second thoughts.

Seconds of silent hesitation blend into minutes that feel like hours to Angela right now – moments hanging around like particles of dust in the air. Time interacts with attention in curious ways, as she listens to the quiet hums of the girl’s breathing, drowning out all the background noise. There is a dizzying smell to her, too; a wonderfully sweet mixture of shampoo and something like cotton candy, maybe. And for reasons she can’t quite articulate, right then, Angela has a sudden urge to inch closer, to make sure this girl is comfortable enough.

But she immediately stops herself.

She breathes in and she releases it into a quiet sigh. _Get a hold of yourself, Ziegler._

 

She clears her throat, abruptly, but she gets no response.

She tries again, just a tad louder, yet still nothing.

When she tries to move her arm, the girl frowns, wrinkles her nose and nestles in even closer.

Angela doesn’t quite feel like admitting that it was more than slightly adorable so she has to feign a yawn, covering her mouth with the back of her hand to hide the smile twitching on her lips. Because honestly, this girl… _This entire situation is simply ridiculous._ And Angela doesn’t want to draw any unnecessary attention to herself right now.

Her phone suddenly buzzes in her pocket and she twists as much as she can without disturbing the sleeping girl.

After half a minute of careful fumbling, she manages to drag her phone out of the pocket of her coat and she hears the girl mumble something under her breath – something that sounds like angry Korean – but she doesn’t wake up. Angela feels an odd rush of relief even though she was the one who was purposefully trying to wake her up just minutes ago.

 _Mein Gott._ Angela barely resists the urge to roll her eyes at herself as she takes a look at the name lit up on the screen.

She finds a new text message from Genji, asking her if she is still willing to meet up with him in Tokyo.  _Of course._ She sends out a quick affirmative reply then stuffs the phone back into her pocket. She doesn’t understand why he worries so much. Seeing how they haven’t seen each other in years, it would be extremely rude of her not to find the time to squeeze into her schedule a meeting with an old friend. Besides, she will be staying a couple of months in Tokyo so it would practically impossible for them not to bump into each other every now and then.

She hears the muffled sound of a phone buzzing again. Except this time it’s not her phone that’s ringing.

Angela feels the girl twitch a little beside her. Then she blinks awake, at last, slowly and unstartled, almost as if she is not waking up in the waiting area of an airport but in the comfort of her own bed. She yawns, rubs at one eye with the heel of her hand, then she squints blindly up at Angela, waiting for her sleep-blurred vision to come into focus.

Her hair is a bit mussed from where it was pressed against the material of Angela’s coat and Angela has to bite back a smile at the way this girl blinks up at her, with a delicate crease between her brows and her eyes still caked with sleep. She gives an adorably baffled expression when the fact that she’s been using a complete stranger’s shoulder as a pillow seems to finally register.

Something in her eyes changes then and it catches Angela off guard.

She suddenly realizes just how close they are right now and she blinks, too, her heart thudding at the proximity.

The girl’s body is angled toward hers and their faces are mere inches away; so close that Angela can see the tired glaze to her eyes and the little flecks of gold around her pupils. Angela notices an eyelash stuck on her cheek and she finds herself momentarily distracted by it, with her hand twitching on the armrest from the sudden and strangest impulse to reach over and brush her thumb over it – a whim that she dismisses almost immediately. But she doesn’t move. She feels completely trapped in that moment, waiting—though for what exactly, she isn’t sure.

The girl opens her mouth and she is about to say something when her phone starts buzzing again in her pocket.

It’s enough to shift everything from slow-motion and back into the speed of the present time. Just like that, it’s almost as though a spell has been broken and Angela feels reality finally seeping back in around her as the girl finally turns away.

Angela lets out a breath she wasn’t even aware she’s been holding as she leans back in her seat, reeling from what had just happened. She watches the girl turn off the alarm on her phone before slipping it back into the pocket of her jacket, and Angela has to admit that it’s a bit of a pleasant surprise to find that she is in fact quite organized.

There is a ding overhead that signals the start of a new announcement and they listen to the woman urging all the passengers for the next flight to _Busan_ to report to the departure gate with their boarding passes ready.

Angela hears the girl mumble something that sounds like _‘finally_ ’ under her breath before she’s overtaken by a yawn. She rolls her shoulder and stretches her neck until it releases a faint pop then she stands up and bends to pick up her backpack, flinging it over her shoulder. She treads her fingers through her hair and when their eyes meet again, Angela feels once again momentarily unsteady beneath her gaze.

Angela opens her mouth to say something but no words come out. She has no clue what to say. Her mind is muddled and blurry. There is just something about this girl that has thrown her off, twisting her into uncertain knots. And she doesn’t know what sort of look must be on her face right now but this girl is now watching her with her head slightly tilted and an amused little twinkle in her eyes. She reaches into the back pocket of her pants to pull out her boarding ticket and a piece of wrapped gum. Then she casts a quick glance over her shoulder, toward the departure gate now teeming with passengers, as she pops the gum into her mouth, nonchalantly. She turns her gaze back to Angela’s.

“You got a pen?” she asks, suddenly, as she simply stands there, with her backpack hanging loosely over her shoulder and the hint of smirk playing across her lips like she’s somehow got Angela all figured out.

Angela finds herself blushing for no good reason.

“A pen?” She blinks, her thoughts tripping over themselves as she tries to force her mind to catch up. Her mouth moves wordlessly for a beat or two before she nods. “Yes, of course…” She trails off as she does a quick mental tally of all that she has packed inside, trying to remember where she threw in a pen. She pulls her tingling wrist from where it was wedged between them on the armrest to rummage through the bag at her feet.

She takes a deep breath before tipping her head back up to look at the girl. She passes the pen over to her, watching curiously as the girl bends a little to smoothen the wrinkles of the gum wrapper over her knee then she scribbles something on it. She readjusts the strap of her backpack over her shoulder and she hands Angela back the pen, together with the small piece of gum wrapper. “Here you go,” she says, and Angela takes them with numb fingers, nodding mechanically; her heart skipping a beat at the fleeting thought that she might hear from this girl again.

“You’re welcome!” The girl shouts, her voice trailing behind as she hurries towards the departure gate for that final boarding call. She throws Angela a wink over her shoulder and Angela simply watches her go.

There is barely any time to properly react but before she knows it, Angela blurts out the first thing that pops into her mind.

“Have a safe flight,” she calls out after her, waving, though the girl can no longer see her. Up ahead, she is already pushing through the crowd of restless travelers and Angela follows her intently until she is completely swept away.

Angela slowly blinks out of her daze and leans back into her seat with a sigh.

 _So it wasn’t cotton candy. It was bubblegum…_ she muses, fingering the edges of the wrinkled paper in her hand.

 

Her eyes dart over the surprisingly beautiful handwriting and she does a double take when she reads: _'Anything for a fan! Love, D.Va!’_

 

 _What is this?_ Angela blinks, a bit stunned. _Did she just… give me her autograph?_

She even drew a small heart too, and Angela just stares at it for a long moment, feeling her mouth stretch into a slow smile. She shakes her head incredulously as she folds the scrap of paper up, carefully tucking it into the pocket of her coat. 

_What a strange girl..._


	2. Where do we begin?

**BUSAN, SOUTH KOREA.**

 

“Last one there’s a rotten egg!” Lena shouts as she sprints forward, towards the bus stop ahead. She throws Hana a quick glance over her shoulder, a stream of bubbly giggles trailing behind her. She’s moving fast down the street at a pace that Hana can hardly match. But then again, Hana is not one for turning down a challenge. So she keeps going, too, putting one foot in front of the other to the best of her ability.

Hana forces her legs to move faster and faster, her sneakers slapping at the pavement as she runs. Her muscles are straining and there’s a sharp coolness to the morning air that pinches at her lungs whenever she breaths it in, but she loves the feel of the wind in her hair and the way her ponytail bounces around, whipping from side to side.

 

“Cool your jets, Sonic X. It’s not a freaking marathon,” Hana huffs, when she finally catches up with Lena. She bends over, with her hands on her knees. Her words come out in a puff of air as she struggles to catch her breath. “We’re just jogging.”

A stray bead of sweat slides down her brow and Hana flicks it away with the back of her hand before it can reach her eyes. She lifts her head then and she finds Lena casually standing there, looking as cheerful as ever, with her arms raised skyward in a mighty stretch.

“Aw, _someone_ ’s a sore loser,” Lena teases, giving Hana a sideways glance. She snorts with laughter. “C’mon now, let’s turn that frown upside down!” She reaches out to pinch Hana’s cheek but Hana catches her wrist mid-movement and flings it away with a hard glare.

“ _Ya!_ ” Hana clicks her tongue indignantly and stomps her foot. “You wanna get wrecked?”

Lena grins even as she backs off, holding her hands up in mock surrender. She jabs her thumb in the general direction of the vending machines behind her. “I just wanna get something to drink.” She raises her eyebrows expectantly and Hana gives a lazy nod.

“Go ahead,” Hana tells her, stifling a yawn. She watches as Lena peers closely through the glass of the vending machine, humming and tapping a finger against her chin thoughtfully as she ponders over her beverage choices.

It’s admittedly kind of amazing how even after an intense run, so early in the morning, Lena can still have such a restless energy to her. Hana doesn’t know if it comes naturally to her or if it has more to do with the fact that she’s a professional track-and-field athlete but Lena is the definition of bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. She never fails to rise with the sun, all chipper and bright smiles, at all times.

Hana, on the other hand, is by no means what others may describe as a ‘morning person’. She sighs and clasps her fingers behind her, pressing them into the small of her back in an attempt to arch her spine. She tilts her chin upward, staring at the all too familiar glassy buildings, piercing the sky and blocking out the sunlight. A cool breeze touches her cheeks and she feels a chill go up her spine, prickling at the base of her neck where the skin is damp with sweat. She wipes at her forehead with the back of her hand and straightens her ponytail.

As far as Hana is concerned, all the exercising is done merely out of an odd sense of duty. It’s required training, nothing more, nothing less – a necessary evil, as they say. It’s good for both her physical and mental health. Though finding time to squeeze it in her already packed day-to-day schedule – in between practice sessions, sponsorship gigs, live streams, so on and so forth – is no simple task, she can’t slack off. Not if she wants to avoid things like getting a nasty case of the carpal tunnel syndrome or worse. Besides, keeping an image is key.

Lena pats her – apparently empty – pockets, looking around like she might find some coins on the floor by sheer force of luck. She glances up with a sheepish smile on her face. “Got some change to spare, love?”

“ _Aigoo_ ,” Hana sighs dramatically, digging into her pockets. “How much do you need?”

Lena steps aside like the obedient puppy she can be, especially when there’s free stuff involved. She rubs her palms together excitedly before tapping a finger on the glass. “Oh! Get me one of these that’s got your face on it!”

Hana takes a few seconds to count up her cash, thumbing through the bills and pushing the change around in her palm.

The slogan ‘ _Pink Confidence with Nano Cola!_ ’ has been running in the back of her mind on an endless loop like a bad recording. After signing that solo-sponsorship contract and spending the past few days on a tour to promote their new line of products, Hana would say that she’s personally had enough of Nano-Cola for now.

She hears Lena snicker and Hana cocks her head in her direction, with a raised eyebrow. “What’s so funny?”

The can tumbles toward the dispenser in the machine and Lena bends to pick up her drink. “Still can’t believe you gave that lady your autograph,” she says, amusement still evident in her voice as she pops the top of her soda can with one finger. She gives Hana a funny look and she takes a healthy sip, then she also takes her time to exhale in delight before adding, “I bet she had no idea who you were.”

“Maybe.” Hana shrugs. “I don’t know,” she says, shifting her weight from one leg to the other. She straightens out a bill for a water bottle and feeds it to the machine. “I mean, she had this look on her face like…” She trails off as she tries to recall that woman’s face and the way her eyes had lingered on Hana with a strange sort of intensity. There was some kind of anticipation lingering at the edges of her expression and in the spur of that moment, Hana assumed that she was just itching to ask for an autograph. In retrospect, Hana realizes now that it was kind of a dumb thing to assume but in her own defense, she was tired and sleep-deprived and kind of in a rush and seeing that woman look at her like that… _well, what other plausible explanation is there?_ Besides, there’s no way she couldn’t tell who Hana was, right? Her denim jacket had her iconic bunny symbol painted on the back, not the mention the various Team MEKA’s sponsors logo patches stitched on both of her sleeves.

 _Anyway._ It doesn’t matter. No point in mulling over it now, what’s done is done. Hana pulls herself out of her thoughts only to find that Lena is still eyeing her curiously. “Like what?” Lena prompts; a look of amusement crossing her face, visible in the shift of her eyebrows.

Hana’s cheeks go a little warm for some reason. She feels like Lena is trying to imply something here; something like how maybe Hana found that woman to be attractive – which, yes, she did, but that’s beside the point. “Never mind,” Hana says, quickly, shaking her head. A strand of hair slips out of her ponytail and she tucks it behind her ear before waving one hand dismissively. “It’s, you know… whatever.” She bends to pick up her water bottle, hoping that Lena isn’t going to insist on this. Lena is usually not very good at letting things that pique her interest go but then again, with Lena, it’s often hard to tell, too. Sometimes she feels like asking things and sometimes she just doesn’t.

When Hana glances back up, she sees the battle in Lena’s eyes – between tact and curiosity. Luckily, she chooses to let it go.

“If you say so…” Lena hums, with a simple shrug. She takes another sip of her drink as she makes her way back to the bus station.

“Get me a chocolate bar, too!” she shouts from where she’s sitting on the bench now.

Hana rolls her eyes. “Yeah, right,” she grumbles under her breath, already digging into her pockets for more coins. “What am I, your cash cow?”

Less than a minute later, she tosses Lena the chocolate bar as she plops down onto the bench next to her. Lena flicks her a grateful smile and bumps their shoulders together. “Thanks, love,” she says, tearing open the top of the packaging with her teeth. “You’re the best!”

Hana untwists the cap of her water bottle and takes a long swig. “Damn right,” she says, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. She stretches out her legs in front of her, one hand rubbing at her thigh. She feels the tension slowly ease out of her tired muscles and she exhales on a breath of relief that sounds more like a painful groan. Fucking hell. _How old is she again?!_

“So what’s up with you?” Lena asks, taking another bite of her chocolate bar. Hana quirks a questioning brow and Lena chews around her next words, “You’re, like, extra cranky this morning.” She does a slow, round motion with her index finger like that alone is supposed to explain the basis of her assumption. “Didn’t get enough sleep after your trip?”

Hana nods and yawns through her answer, “Something like that.”

She takes another swig of water then she tips her head back, peering up at the sky, where the sun has broken free of the clouds.

Hana closes her eyes, relishing in the warm touch of sunlight across her eyelids.

She didn’t get much sleep during her trip. That’s true. But it’s also only part of the reason why she’s in a ‘cranky mood’.

After she arrived home from the airport, she spent hours after midnight frantically searching around in her luggage. She sifted through all of her packed clothes and reached into every pocket, turning them all inside out. But she couldn’t find what she was looking for.

The one thing that she shouldn’t have lost: her precious good-luck charm.

What if someone finds it and recognizes whom it belongs to but instead of returning it, they sell it online? Or worse, they keep it for themselves. _Aish… How could she have been so careless?!_ There were so many alarm bells going off in her head that Hana has no idea what time she managed to finally fall asleep. She only knows that when she woke up it was still dark out, and it felt as if she didn’t sleep at all. Her head was still fuzzy with worry. She thought back on it, carefully, going through a mental checklist of all the places where she might’ve lost it. She knows that she first noticed it was missing when she got to the airport in Beijing. And Hana is one hundred percent sure she still had it the day before, when she was in Tokyo. So, logically speaking, she must have lost it sometime – somewhere – between Tokyo and Beijing. So Hana called and sent mails to those two hotels she roomed in, first thing in the morning. But at this point, there’s really not much else she can do but wait…

And now, her exhaustion is so complete and extreme that her brain feels like a ticking time bomb and she’s got static buzzing at her eardrums like a broken television set. She wonders if this is what a hangover feels like: a throbbing sense of regret and a certain sense of reluctance about making it through the day ahead. Hana bites back a sigh as she takes another sip of her water.

At least she got the chance to catch some shut-eye before her flight, yesterday, at the airport in Beijing. Well, it’s not like Hana planned to fall asleep in an airport of all places, much less on a total stranger’s shoulder. That was embarrassing, not to mention stupid. But for some reason, when she noticed that woman dozing off next to her, Hana couldn’t help it. As she was sitting there and keeping an eye on both of their bags – _because she’s nice like that_ – minute by minute, she felt the exhaustion she’s been trying so hard to fight starting to creep in on her like the tide. It was like someone pulling a blanket up over her, a feeling of absolute comfort and safety. And so, before she knew it, she fell asleep.

 

She blinks hazily now as her eyes spot the fading white trail from a distant plane, like the wake of a boat across the blue sea of the sky.

Hana can’t help but smile. _Have a safe flight, huh…_ She wonders if that woman did, too.

 

She blinks again as Lena’s voice snaps her out of her daze. “And, it’s like I’m racing against time! The adrenaline thrums within me and the crowd cheers me on and the clock ticks on and I feel unstoppable! Know what I mean?”

Hana nods distractedly. She hasn’t heard a word of what Lena’s been babbling about up until now but she knows what Lena talks about when she talks about running. Hana figures Lena loves running for the same reasons Hana loves riding a bicycle. Because there’s something liberating in the simplicity of it. Whenever Hana goes for a spin down the road, she doesn’t have to think about anything else. She only savors the trip along the way, focusing on the way her heart pounds and her skin tingles and the electric adrenaline rushing through her veins.

She can barely remember now how it started, really, but whenever Hana takes her bike for a spin or goes for a run in the mornings, Lena often tags along. And as it turns out, Lena is fast. Crazy fast. She can even keep up with Hana riding her bike at top speed like it’s no big deal. Which shouldn’t be that much of a surprise, considering the fact that Lena is among the top ten runners in the world, from what she’s told Hana. Apparently, she even made it to the Olympics one time. Hana has no idea if that’s true or not but she is inclined to believe it.

Lena is grinning next to her now, munching happily on her chocolate bar. A stream of sunlight hits her face in a way that makes the freckles on her nose stand out, and her fingers are drumming an unconscious rhythm on the bench. Lena really is spectacularly odd in her own way. Hana has only known her for three months or so but she knows by now that Lena is the kind of person who’d be the first to jump out of a plane on a sky dive, the type of person who is always ready to crack a joke or a distraction, the first person to fill in awkward silences.

But Lena is also the type of person who can sometimes miss the mark. Sometimes she’s too loud when no one else is in the mood for cheers and she rarely notices when her jokes fall flat or her jibes hit too close to home. She’ll usually laugh it off and cover her confusion with a smile when she gets cold shoulders. But none of that really matters, Hana thinks, in the long run. Lena might miss the mark, but her eyes are warm and she’s trying her best. She’s someone who’s kind and cheerful and optimistic. And Hana sees nothing wrong with that.

Then, there are the rare times when Lena gets this shifty and faraway look in her eyes, almost like she’s slipping in and out of time. And it makes Hana realize just how much she _doesn’t_ know about her. But Hana doesn't mind, she doesn’t meddle. She’s fine with not knowing much. She thinks this is how their friendship works. They talk about many things but nothing of substance. There are a whole lot of things she doesn’t know about Lena and there are a whole lot of things Lena doesn’t know about her. There are no expectations to live up to, no need to dig deeper. Their friendship is like a lazy summer day you can spend without bothering anyone and no one bothering you.

At the very least, Hana knows that Lena, being an athlete and all, understands some things about Hana better than most people. Lena understands what it means to constantly want to do better, to be better, to work hard under pressure, to stay motivated in the face of adversity and to be unapologetic in victory. A level of insane commitment and determination that can breed both risks and benefits. Lena gets it.

And then there are the things that Hana sometimes envies Lena for. Things like her reckless spontaneity and unchecked impulsiveness that carry her and send her wandering around the world to her heart’s content. Lena doesn’t stick to a set schedule all the time, she goes with the flow. It seems like a simple thing to do but Hana knows that’s not true. These kind of things require nerve and daring and maybe a little bit of stupidity, too. Things that Hana can’t really afford since her career as a professional gamer ties her down in more ways than one.

Hana only ever travels out of necessity and she’s always running on a schedule. She has to. After all, the best way to balance everything is to stay organized and stick to a structure. There’s no other way around it. But at the end of the day, it’s all worth it. Hana wouldn’t trade the e-sports scene for anything.

This is her world.

And in her world, spare time is a commodity. “This is taking forever,” Hana complains, peering down the street for the bus, with a frown on her face. She glances at the clock on her phone. This is starting to get dangerously close to cutting into her round of morning practice.

“You don’t have to wait with me, you know? I won’t get mad if you go do whatcha gotta do,” Lena says as she finishes her chocolate bar. She balls up the wrapper to toss it into a nearby garbage can but her throw goes wide, glancing off the side of the bin. “Oh, bollocks.” She jumps to her feet and bends to pick it up.

Hana waves a hand like it’s no big deal. “Nah, it’s fine. My place is just a couple of blocks from here anyway.”

“Still can’t believe you live _there_ ,” Lena whistles, backpedaling to get a better look. She shields her eyes from the glancing sun and Hana follows her line of sight to the skyscraper made up almost entirely of floor to ceiling windows. “That place’s _huge_! You’ve even got one of those fancy cyber cafes!”

“PC Bang. That’s what we call it here. And it’s not like I own the entire place. It belongs to Team MEKA.”

Hana watches now as Lena paces around, excitedly, back and forth along the sidewalk. It’s tiring Hana out and it doesn’t help her headache one bit and she barely resists the urge to stick her leg out and trip Lena, make her stop.

“You guys sure have it good, huh?” Lena rambles on, “Must be nice to be that rich and famous.”

“That’s only because we are the very best at what we do,” Hana says, clapping her hands on her knees and then standing up. She gives a small nod towards the street where the bus comes into view. “Your ride’s here.”

There’s a long hiss as the bus pulls to a stop in front of them and Lena waves her goodbye with a beaming smile. “See ya!”

Hana waves her off, then she knits her fingers together, lifting her arms above her head in a stretch. She checks the clock on her phone again as she begins to walk. She pops her neck, cracks her knuckles. She needs to shower and then it’s time for morning practice.

_Her APM isn’t gonna magically raise itself._

 

 

* * *

 

 

**TOKYO, JAPAN.**

 

Angela steps outside the red door of the _Shimada_ sushi bar and takes a deep breath, welcoming in the cool air. She stands on the sidewalk, there, in the very heart of Tokyo. The Shinjuku district is alive with glowing neon lights, so effervescent against the clear night sky. There are huge television screens and blinking electric signs, brightly colored billboards and advertisements, all lit up so and bathing the street in an artificial glow.

A siren wails in the distance, bleeding into the sounds of the city as it gets further away. Amid the great white noise of it all, Angela barely hears the hushed footsteps when Hanzo walks out, closing the door behind him with a quiet, metallic clink. He’s still wearing the black, double-breasted jacket that’s part of his _Itamae_ uniform. As he fumbles the key into the lock, Angela notices that he’s flipped the sign on the door from OPEN to CLOSED and she checks her wristwatch, reflexively, even though she is well aware that it’s past 10PM by now.

She stifles a yawn as she casts a glance down the crowded street, surveying the traffic all the way to the nearest intersection.

After her shift at the hospital ended, she rushed here from the neighboring Shibuya district, hoping she’d manage to catch Genji at the restaurant before closing time, but he’s yet to return from a late-night delivery.

“Here,” Hanzo mumbles, nodding down at the plastic bag he’s holding in his hand.

Angela quirks an amused brow as she takes it from him, with a slight tilt of her head. “I didn’t order takeout.”

“It is on the house,” he grumbles as he tucks away his keys.

Angela suspects Genji put him up to it and she can’t help but smile, more to herself than anything, at the thought of how far the two brothers have come. “Thank you,” she replies, politely.

Hanzo gives a thoughtful nod of his head and with no further comments, he pulls a zippo lighter out of his pocket. Leaning back against the brick wall of the building, he plucks a cigarette out of the pack and hunches over it, cupping his palm around the flame to keep it burning long enough to get the cherry glowing. His eyes are ringed with exhaustion and his cheeks hollow when he inhales. The flame lights up his face in the near dark, casting him in an eerie glow that somehow suits him – much like the dragon seal of his family. Smoke billows out of his nostrils in a thick cloud of nicotine and tobacco smell and Angela wrinkles her nose a little, stepping further aside.

They wait in silence. Hanzo has never been one for small talk. Then again, it’s not as though they’d have much to talk about since they are but mere acquaintances at best. Even so, Angela can tell that he’s changed quite a bit since the last time she’s seen him. And she’s not talking here about his new undercut or the facial piercings, no. As with most things, the answer lies in the details. It’s in the way he’s considerate enough now to keep the smoke away from her so that it wouldn’t bother her; it’s even in the simple fact that he’s stepped outside to wait with her.

Hanzo takes another drag and exhales up into the night, watching the billowing cloud of smoke float and dissipate along the way. The cigarette burns away between his fingers as he stares off into the distance. The ashes fall from the burning tip and flutter away when the hint of a breeze sweeps past them. Angela feels a small shiver go through her and her first thought is of home – though the cold here isn’t like Switzerland, the night air still has a bite to it. An early hint of the shifting season; a reminder that September took over the reign from the summer days.

As she stands there, with the plastic bag hooked around her fingers, her gaze travels up to where the sliver of moon hangs above the shadowy outline of the buildings, a thin curve of white against the navy sky. There is but one lonesome star that refuses to stay put and Angela soon realizes that it’s, in fact, an airplane. Something about the sight of it calms her and a smile tugs at her lips as she keeps her eyes trained on those bright dots of light.

She shoves her hand deep into the pocket of her coat and runs her thumb along the edges of the small piece of crinkled paper. A portable reminder of that odd encounter. At the end of the day, Angela can’t help but wonder if that girl had a safe flight.

 

After her own flight landed, Angela ended up checking in at the hotel in the middle of the night. She hasn’t had the chance to catch up on lost hours of sleep and it’s been a long and hectic first day at the hospital. Frankly, right now, she would like nothing more than to go back to her hotel room, take a warm shower and let the tension curling up in knots come undone as she finally heads to bed.

But she promised Genji that she’d drop by to see him, and a promise is a promise.

She hears the hum of an engine and it jerks her attention back to the street. She can see the delivery scooter glide into view, pulling up to the entrance of the restaurant. Genji takes off his helmet and dismounts the bike. His dark hair looks as ruffled as ever and the collar of his shirt is twisted and crumpled underneath the green sweatshirt.

“Angela!” He waves and his smile widens as he draws closer. “It’s good to see you!” He reaches up and rubs at the back of his neck, with a sheepish expression on his face. “I apologize for making you wait.” He shoots his brother a not so subtle and rather accusing glance. “Perhaps if _someone_ would make an effort to be less intimidating and more understanding, we would have better luck keeping employees around.”

Hanzo gives a noncommittal shrug as he stubs his cigarette out and pushes himself off the wall. “I will see you at home, brother,” he says, his voice stern, though the corner of his mouth is twitching and Angela can tell that there is a smile there, just below the surface. His frown is often so deep and so complete that it’s hard to imagine his face with another expression but his eyes are giving him away. “Have a good night, Ziegler.”

“You too, Hanzo,” Angela tells him as he turns and starts walking down the street. They wave him off, silently watching him go until his frame blends in with the crowd of people in the distance. Then, she shifts her attention back to Genji. “You seem well. And I am glad to see that you and your brother are getting along these days.”

“Yes. My brother and I…” Genji heaves a quiet sigh, stubbing the toe of his shoe against a crumpled cigarette on the ground. “We are indeed trying to work things out, to look past our differences and disagreements.” He notices the plastic bag that Angela is holding and he smiles a little before glancing back up at her.

Angela nods in acknowledgment to show that she’s still listening as they set off on a stroll, beneath the glassy buildings and the brilliant electricity of the city. Genji keeps his eyes straight ahead as he carries on, “The fact of the matter is that my brother has yet to forgive himself for everything that has happened within our family and the fall of the great Shimada Empire… I believe he still blames himself for it…” He falters for a moment, and Angela’s gaze lingers on the scars on his face. In the fluorescent glow of the streetlights, they look painfully carved into his skin, and Angela feels a deep sense of pity trickle through her, followed by an immediate rush of relief at the reassuring thought that those days are thankfully long past them now.

She hears Genji say, “Balance and harmony are not easily attained. This, I know. They must be fought for. And this may be a battle that my brother has to struggle with on his own. I cannot help him but I will stand by him.”

Angela gives him an understanding smile. “It sounds like you’ve learnt a thing or two from your trip to Nepal.”

“I have,” Genji nods slowly, turning his gaze straight ahead again as they keep walking. He buries his hands in the pockets of his sweatshirt and smiles with such undisguised longing that Angela is certain he is reminiscing a deeply cherished memory. In her own mind, she pictures a temple, deep in the mountains and far away from the corruption of the city. In the pure summer heat, when you can only hear the shrill cry of the cicadas’ piercing through the silence. “In fact, I have learnt a great deal from my Master’s teachings.”

“I remember reading about him in some of your letters.”

“Yes,” Genji says, his cheeks turning a light shade of red. He lifts a shoulder to give a little shrug. “He is young, but he is wise beyond his years. I believe you would like him if you two were to meet.”

“I believe so, too,” Angela tells him and she means it. Given how highly Genji speaks of this person, he must truly be one-of-a-kind.

They remain quiet for a moment, both lost in their own separate thoughts. They walk in silence for almost a block before Genji clears his throat.

“We’ve kept the family temple and the _dojo_ open,” he says, sounding almost desperate to strike up another conversation and keep it going. “Have I mentioned that in the letters? I sometimes teach _Kenjutsu_ there. I also use the meditation hall for my _Zazen_ practices.”

“That sounds nice,” Angela says, in lack of anything else to add. She wonders if it would be extremely rude of her to sneak a glance at her wristwatch now. Her eyes wander around the blinking signs around them in search of a clock when Genji speaks up again.

“How about you? Where are you staying?”

“Park Hyatt,” she says, as they come to a halt near the curb. “The _locums_ agency I’ve signed with is covering the accommodation fee. Among other things.” She checks her wristwatch. “It’s getting late... I should get going.”

“Of course,” Genji nods, flicking his gaze away. He looks off toward the street, red taillights reflected in his eyes. He shifts from one foot to the other, clearly uncertain about something. His fingers work the key to his scooter in circles until he seems to have finally summoned the courage to ask, “Perhaps, I could give you a ride?”

Angela pictures herself sitting on that scooter and the mere idea of it is so wildly unimaginable that it’s almost laughable. And even though Genji has an expectant look on his face that nearly makes her change her mind, she’ll have to politely decline the offer. “No, that’s alright,” she says, her tone holding a sincere apology. “I’ll take a cab.”

Genji nods, shoving his hands back into his pockets. He doesn’t seem offended or even surprised at her refusal but the silence that stretches on between them in the wake of that exchange is dipped into the worst kind of awkwardness. Angela feels the weight of it; a stiffness between them when minutes before they’d been at ease. It’s making them both uncomfortable, she can tell. So she tries to set it aside with the clearing of a throat but ultimately, she doesn't know what else to say. It is what it is.

She turns her attention towards the busy street and the passing cars and when she takes her hand out of her pocket to hail a cab, her fingers accidentally catch onto the piece of gum wrapper and it slips out.

It makes her instantly whirl back around and frantically look at her feet only to find that Genji had already picked it up.

“Angela,” he says, holding out the slip of paper between his fingers; his thick eyebrows raised in sheer surprise. He does a quick double check before passing it over to her. “I didn’t know you were a D.Va fan.”

“I am not,” she responds curtly, aware of the defensiveness in her own voice. For some reason, she feels slightly self-conscious now that this particular topic has been dragged to the center of the conversation and she fumbles to find the right words to explain when curiosity gets the better of her and she blinks up at him with newfound interest. “You know her?”

“I do know who she is, if that’s what you are asking.” Genji reaches up to ruffle the back of his hair, looking somewhat embarrassed at having to admit it. He digs around in his back pocket for his phone. “It’s a name you hear often around here,” he clarifies, pausing to cup a hand around the glowing screen as he quickly types something out. “In fact, she was in Akihabara just two days ago.”

Angela squints a little at the poster on the bright screen as Genji holds his phone up in front of her face. Without a doubt, that is the same girl Angela met at the airport. “There was this press conference here in Shinjuku, too,” Genji is telling her as Angela’s eyes skim over the girl’s name and the event details below: _100% dokidoki… promoting the latest line of products… Pink Confidence with Nano Cola!_

It looks like this girl really is some sort of celebrity. _Well, that explains the autograph,_ Angela thinks and she finds herself smiling at the thought.

“I think it was held at the same hotel you—” Genji suddenly stops talking and Angela blinks up at him as he heaves a nervous laughter. “But you already knew all of this, I presume…”

“I didn’t, actually,” she says and she sees the confusion in Genji's eyes as they flicker down to the paper in Angela’s hand. She realizes what he means and she chuckles lightly as she begins to explain but she’s cut off by the squeal of a cab pulling up against the side of the road.

Angela smiles coyly, tucking the piece of wrinkled gum wrapper back into the safety of her pocket, where she hopes it will remain secure this time. She should probably find a better place to keep it.

“It’s a story for another day,” she promises as she opens the door to the backseat and slides in. “Good night, Genji.”

“Good night, Angela,” he says, waving. He taps lightly on the window after she’s closed the door.

Angela can make out the words ‘ _It was great to see you_ _again_ ’ as he smiles at her and she nods, waving him off.

“ _Dochiramade_?” She hears the driver ask and she leans forward to give him the hotel’s address.

Angela eases back into her seat as the car veers into the late-night traffic. She watches with bleary eyes the buildings whipping past the windows, in a blur of neon and fluorescent lighting. She tries her best to stay awake. Then a lingering thought crosses her mind and her hand instinctively goes to the inner pocket of her coat. Once her fingers make out the outline of the pink charm she’s found in her hotel room this morning, she gives it a little pat and makes a mental note to report it to the _Lost & Found_ department first thing tomorrow morning.

After all…  _T_ _his small charm might mean a great deal to someone_.


	3. Press Start to Continue

Hana awakes to the sound of her phone buzzing insistently on the nightstand.

Her ringtone echoes loudly through the silence of her apartment and honestly, as much as she loves and respects 2NE1, all this  _[BAM RATATATA TATATATATA](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=j7_lSP8Vc3o) _ so early in the morning is starting to give birth to a truly epic headache.

She groans as she unearths her arm from the warm haven under the covers and fishes around blindly on the bedside table for her phone, fumbling with sleep-thickened fingers until she manages to grab the screeching device and pull it close to her face. She cracks one eye open against her pillow and squints at the much too bright screen to check the caller ID before pulling the phone to her ear. “ _Yabaseyo?_ ”

A raspy chuckle filters into her ear from the other end of the line. “ _Yo, D.! Guess what? I’m working on this bonus track for my new album and whoo,_ _that_ _beat is sick!_ _You gotta listen to it and tell me what you think, yeah?”_ Lucio sounds so excited that his voice is slightly trembling, and Hana figures that wherever he is right now, he’s probably dancing. She can hear the noise of a party in the background, people shouting and music booming. He must be at one of those underground shows he’s been telling her about. _“Did you check out that lil’ preview I sent you?”_

Hana shifts in her bed, trying to find a comfortable position while still holding the phone to her ear. She kicks at the covers, sluggishly attempting to untangle her legs from the sheets twisted around her knees, with as little effort as possible. She rolls onto her back and rubs at one eye with the heel of her hand. “I literally just woke up,” she grumbles, running a hand through her sleep-mused hair.

She steals a glance at the digital clock beside her bed and the bright blue lines taunt her with the numbers: _5:47AM_. That’s only minutes away from when her alarm is due to go off and less than four hours since Hana went to bed. _Ugh._ Lucio is a great dude but he has a pretty questionable grasp of the time difference. This is definitely not the first time he’s called at the crack of dawn. Hell, he’s even called in the middle of the night a couple of times before.

“ _Aw, man,_ _did I wake you up? Sorry about that,_ ” Lucio chuffs out a breathless laugh, though he does sound sorry. “ _I’mma let you go back to sleep, no worries, but first, hear me out on this, alright? I got some great news!_ ” He pauses all of a sudden, for what Hana assumes is intended to be dramatic effect on his part – drum rolling and all – until he finally spits it out: “ _I signed with a new label and I’m going on tour, woo!_ ”

His shout is loud enough to be heard clearly over the music and it bolts Hana fully awake.

“No way, Lu! That’s awesome!” she blurts out, a note of genuine excitement in her voice. She props herself up to lean onto her elbow as her brain catches up and tries to process the information. “This is a huge deal, wow. Congrats!” She huffs out an almost incredulous laugh as she drops back onto the pillows and lets the news sink in. She can’t help but smile as she listens to Lucio tell her all about how he got an unexpected call from a local music agency. Apparently, he has to meet with their representative in a few days to discuss all the details, sign the contract and seal the deal. Hana is happy for him, truly. She knows how hard he’s worked for this.

 _“Can’t believe it’s actually happening for real. I feel like I’m dreamin’ right now_ ,” Lucio raves on, a breathless rush of elation seeping into his words, “ _couldn’t have done it without your help though, you know that, right? I would’ve never gone mainstream if it weren’t for you sharing my tunes with the tons of people who watch your streams. You gave me the popularity boost I needed. Seriously, girl, I owe you one…_ ”

“Don’t mention it,” Hana tells him as she stifles a yawn. She stretches out, all the way down to her toes, then goes boneless again, letting her eyes flutter shut. She smiles lazily into the phone. “You totally deserve it.”

She can hear someone else’s voice cutting in and Lucio shouts something back, in Portuguese, before finally addressing Hana again.

“ _Gotta go now. I’ll let you know once I find out more about it, alright? Talk to you soon, bye!_ ”

He hangs up, and Hana sprawls on top of the covers, blinking hazily against the streaks of morning sunlight that trickle in through the vertical blinds of her windows. She brings a careless wrist to rest against her forehead, hand still cradling her phone. A pleasant sensation envelops her as she soaks in the warmth of her covers, and she relishes the comfort of her sheets, closing her eyes. It’s easy to picture how the sun must look like outside, right about now, just peeking out of the horizon and casting a glistening reflection on the wide, blue sea.

Hana’s mind begins to drift, floating wonderfully…

Until her phone starts buzzing in her hand again, and the violent screeching of her alarm pierces through her peaceful daze.

Hana huffs out a disgruntled sigh as she turns it off. She suddenly envies all those people out there who can afford to sleep a full eight hours every night and who get to hit the snooze button _just one more time_ in the morning.

She glares at her phone like it’s the reason for all of her problems ever before tossing it aside.

She swings her legs over the side of the bed, letting them touch the cool, linoleum floor. She notices that one of her colorful socks is missing. Again. _Seriously, how does this keep happening?_ Hana shakes her head in disbelief as she takes the remaining sock off. She wiggles her freed toes then stumbles out of bed with a yawn. She stretches her arms up over her head, loosening the strained muscles of her neck and shoulders.

She goes to find herself something to wear for when she gets out of the shower, then she taps her laptop awake to check the download link Lucio had sent her, quickly going through her unread emails while she’s at it.

She yawns widely on her way to the bathroom. The shower turns on at the press of a button, the perfect pressure and temperature. It’s nice, but when she steps out onto the bathmat, she’s still feeling only slightly more awake than she was before she stepped under the lukewarm water.

Hana sighs wearily as she grabs a towel, wrapping it tightly around herself. She turns on the faucet and splashes some cold water on her face, shivering at the chill on her skin. She rubs a hand against the misty mirror and frowns at her reflection. The dark circles rimming her eyes are more pronounced than she thought; which shouldn’t be that big of a surprise, really. Her sleep patterns have been all kinds of messed up these past few days.  _Well, whatever._ It's not that bad, she decides, after a closer inspection of her reflection.

It’s nothing that proper skincare products and a little touch of make-up can’t fix.

 

Hana is in the middle of brushing her teeth when she hears the muffled sound of her phone ringing.

 

 _Aigoo._  "What now," she grunts around her toothbrush before spitting a mouthful of foam in the sink. She rinses her mouth, wipes it on a towel, then she rushes back to her bedroom where she spots her phone sticking out between the covers on the bed. It stops ringing by the time Hana reaches it and she blinks at the screen for a few seconds. She doesn’t recognize the number, so part of her is half-expecting it to be a troll.

It wouldn’t be the first time something like this happens to her, make no mistake. She definitely has the right to feel a little paranoid here. The internet is full of dickwads with too much time on their hands and her celebrity status draws them in like bees to the honeypot.

But then again, after seeing things like her face photoshopped on the body of a naked porno actress, Hana likes to think she’s seen it all by now. She doesn’t really bat an eye at any kind of profanities or sexist remarks anymore. She loves the e-sports scene enough to put up with the negative side of things that comes along with it. After all, at the end of the day, she’s still the best player in the world, with hundreds of thousands of dollars in her salary, titles under her belt and a legion of loyal fans supporting her.

 _Damn right. I am number one,_ she thinks. Compared to that, what do those guys have got going for them other than wasting their insignificant existence on the internet, anyway? _Ha!_ Check and mate. Hana smirks proudly, giving herself a mental pat on the back for the top pep talk.

She starts getting dressed and blow dries her hair, tying it up into a messy bun.

Several minutes later, her phone starts ringing again, and Hana frowns suspiciously at those same unfamiliar digits flashing on the screen. This time, though, she does answer, but she doesn’t say anything, stubbornly waiting for whoever is on the other end of the line to speak first.

A woman’s voice finally comes through, her Japanese accent plain to the ears.

“ _Hello? I am calling on behalf of the Park Hyatt Hotel in Tokyo. May I speak to Miss Hana Song, please?_ ”

Hana clears her throat. “This is she.”

“ _You are in luck, Miss Song,_ ” the woman tells her and Hana does a silent fist pump, already having a pretty good guess what this is all about. _“It appears that an item which fits the description you have provided us has been brought to our attention by one of our guests. Now, could you kindly give us a delivery address?_ ”

Hana nods gratefully even though the woman can’t see her. She paces aimlessly around the room as she dictates the address. She is so overjoyed she can barely contain herself. She walks over to the fridge in the kitchen to grab an energy drink, making a quick mental note to pick up more the next time she makes a food run. She’s getting ready to hang up when another thought crosses her mind, lighting fast and out of nowhere, curiosity suddenly getting the better of her. “Hold on, just a sec, um,” Hana drawls, with the phone wedged between her shoulder and her ear while she pops her can open. “Could you tell me the name of the person who found it?”

“ _Miss, I am afraid we are not allowed to disclose the identity of our guests to strangers,”_ the woman begins to explain in a clipped tone, like a rehearsed speech she’s tired of giving, _“It goes against our standard privacy policy_.”

“Of course.” Hana’s eyes squeeze shut and she shakes her head, almost cursing herself for forgetting something so basic. She leans back against the fridge, giving the can in her hand a gentle swirl. She can hear the liquid swish inside. “Then… can I talk to that person?” She asks hopefully, but after a few beats of silence, when it doesn’t appear that there’ll be a response to her request, she quickly adds, “It won’t take long. I just want to thank them.”

“ _Very well. Allow us a minute to check with the guest_.” The line goes silent again and Hana finishes off her energy drink while she waits. She feels inexplicably nervous thinking about what to say to that person, how best to express her gratitude. “ _It appears our guest is currently unavailable_. _Would you like to leave a message?_ ”

Hana feels her shoulders sag, the perk in her mood deflating a bit. She heaves a quiet sigh. “No, it’s fine,” she says. “Thank you.”

“ _Of course. It is our pleasure. Have a good day, Miss Song_.”

 

Hana hangs up, staring absently at the screen of her phone.

She shakes off the unwanted disappointment, willing herself to get back on track. She crumples up the empty can in her hand and drops it in the recycling bin on her way out of the kitchen. She tucks the phone in the back pocket of her skinny jeans and slips on a pair of sneakers, tying her laces into double knots the way her father had taught her to do when she was a kid.

With that thought comes a wistful smile, and Hana finds herself stealing a glance at her neatly organized trophy shelf.

 _That’s right,_ she reminds herself. What’s important is that they found her good-luck charm.

Her eyes linger on a framed picture of herself, perched on her father’s shoulders, and proudly holding a trophy up above her head. She’s laughing and her father is smiling brightly, his eyes crinkling at the edges. He looks as happy as one could be. And just like that, for one unreal moment, Hana blinks, and she’s eight years old again, clinging to her father’s hoodie as he bikes them across the city. She can feel the wind on her face and the way her twin-tails sway with the breeze. She can hear her father laughing, warm and golden in the afternoon sun.

She can hear him ask, ‘ _Do you want to give it a try?_ ’ And she’s ten years old, standing on her tiptoes to reach the buttons of the arcade machine in front of her; the multicolored lights reflected in her eager, curious eyes, her tongue poking out in concentration. She hears the congratulatory sounds the machine makes once she hits a new high score and she’s beaming when she looks up to her father, standing right there by her side. His hand ruffles her hair, and he tells her, ‘ _Looks like you really have a knack for this, kiddo! I was never this good at your age._ ’

‘ ** _Appa_** _! One day, I wanna be just as good as you!_ ’

Her father would laugh, shake his head and he’d say, ‘ _No, Hana. One day, **you** will be better._ ’

Hana remembers nodding determinedly though her brows were furrowed in disbelief—because how could she ever possibly beat her father? She couldn’t stop herself from asking, ‘ _Better than even you?_ ’

Her father would nod, too. ‘ _Better than even me. Better than anyone._ ” He kneels down next to her, taking her small hands into his and giving them a reassuring squeeze. With utmost conviction, he tells her, ‘ _Believe me when I say this, Hana. You are meant to be **spectacular**._ ’ His voice is tinged with love; his smile bright and full of promise.

Hana blinks again, and she’s sixteen years old on that stage, greeted by the dizzying flash of the cameras as she steps into a dazzling new world. With confetti in her hair and flowers at her feet, a trophy in her arms and an entire stadium full of people cheering for her victory, Hana can feel it. She knows. The spotlight is made for her.

‘ _How does it feel?_ ’ They’d ask her.

In that moment, Hana had a simple answer to give: ‘ _There’s no greater feeling in the world.’_

 

Hana can feel her heart squeezing painfully with each beat now, her eyes welling up a little, as all these snippets of memories dismantle and hang in the air, like particles of dust. It makes her feel not quite awake, like she’s a beat or two behind the present moment and trying unsuccessfully to catch up. Hana closes her eyes and tries to hang onto it, even if only for just a little while longer. The memory of that moment becomes like a muted snapshot, etched behind her eyelids. A memory with no motion, no smells or sounds; its finest detail is not the immense crowd or the giant stage, not even the shiny trophy she’s holding. Hana only sees her father’s face, creased with joy and sheer pride.

And it all scatters and drifts away like a dandelion in the wind when she opens her eyes again.

Hana sighs, deeply. The memories always seem to catch her off guard and nag at her more when she’s alone.

 

Her phone buzzes suddenly in her back pocket, startling her out of her self-pitying stupor. Hana wipes at the corners of her eyes with the sleeve of her hoodie, then she takes a look at the new message lit up on the screen. It’s from Lena, who is asking her if she wants to tag along for a jog. Hana scoffs a little. Because leave it to Lena to not remember what day of the week it is. Not to mention the fact that Hana had reminded her plenty of times that on Tuesdays and Thursdays, the team has two extra hours of strategy analysis in between blocks of practice so they start earlier in the morning than they normally do. Hana checks the clock as she types out her reply, making sure she’s staying on schedule.

She steps outside of her apartment, clicking the door closed behind her. She hurries down the hallway and into the elevator, watching the numbers descend to the ground floor. She fiddles with her phone absently before slipping it back into her pocket.

When the doors slide open, she rushes through the open space of the lobby – all clean lines and immaculate glass. Much like the rest of the building, everything is minimal and maybe a little too pretentious, some would say.

‘ _This place is so_ **_posh_** ,’ Lena had told her one morning when Hana found her waiting in the lobby, dressed in a yellow tracksuit and _freaking crocs._ Seriously. _Freaking crocs._ That girl knows no shame. ‘ _I sure wouldn’t mind livin’ here_.’ Lena had let out a long whistle then, sliding her aviator glasses on top of her head to get a better look around, eyes wide and mouth agape. She kept marveling until Hana grabbed her by the shoulders and steered her towards the exit before any more people could witness that _crime scene_ that Lena calls ‘comfy footwear’.

Hana is trying hard not to cringe even now, while, speaking of the devil, she gets another message from Lena.

_Boo, you meanie :(_

Hana hides a smile behind a shake of her head as she taps out her reply. She knows Lena is probably dying of boredom all by her lonesome, since she doesn’t really know anyone else in Busan. Though, there’s not much Hana can do about that, she does feel a little bad for ditching her, so she promises Lena they’ll hang out some other time.

Sliding open the door to the PC Bang, Hana lets the ambient lights and the atmosphere inside rise up to wrap around her like a comfortable blanket – a familiar blur of noise and voices. The whole place is already thrumming with activity when she strides in.

Passing by the bank of vending machines, she stops by the snack zone to study the selection of _Ramyeon_ noodles displayed on the shelves. She settles for the good ol’ _kimchi_ flavor, quickly mixing up the seasonings and filling up the cup with hot water from the dispenser. She presses the lid back into place, careful not to spill or burn herself, then she eases between the rows of gleaming PCs lining the room.  

The majority of her teammates are already at their desks, hunched over the neon glow of their keyboards, with headphones covering their ears; energy drinks and snacks strewn around their gaming stations. Hana casually makes her way to her own booth, carefully setting her hot cup of instant noodles on the desk before plopping down in her leather chair, with a huff.

She boots up her PC, listening to it practically purr to life as it powers up.

The guy next to her notices her arrival, frees one hear of the headset, and leans over to ask, “Where’s _Kochi_?”

Hana gives a noncommittal shrug as she inserts her password. “How should I know? I just got here.” She stifles a yawn, impatiently drumming her fingers on the mouse. She can _feel_ his eyes still on her, and she glances back. “What?” She snaps at him.

“Nothing,” he says, quickly looking away and back at his monitor. He leans back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest.

Hana follows his line of sight, taking in the mid-game situation displayed on the screen. He’s been watching a recorded match and revising his gameplay, by the looks of it. He must have wanted a second opinion or some advice but he’s clearly too proud to ask for it directly. Hana can sympathize with that. And she's aware that she can come off as bit too hostile at times.

“Is this from the quarterfinals?” She asks, having decided to give him the time of the day. After all, the whole point of practicing with a team is to be open to provide feedback and constructive criticism if needed. He nods, pulling his headphones down his neck to hear her better.

Hana picks up her cup of ramen, peeling off the lid. She figures it’s been more than three minutes by now. She stirs the noodles, breaking them apart with her chopsticks. She blows on the soup to cool it faster, before scooping some noodles to her mouth, as she continues to observe his gameplay. She uses her pinky finger to point at the screen, giving some indications every so often, pausing once or twice to slurp some noodles.

“GG,” Hana tells him, when the game nears its end and it’s obvious who is winning. She finishes what’s left of her soup, then she points her chopsticks at him. “You really need to work on your macro, though. And you should’ve exploited that timing window you had sooner.”

“Yeah, I know,” he agrees, and he gives her an appreciative nod of the head. “Thanks, though. At least this time you didn’t just tell me to—” He stops, immediately cursing under his breath when he notices the cocky tilt of Hana’s head and the beginning of a smirk on her face. He obviously realizes he’s set himself up for what’s coming next, and he throws his head back, with a loud exasperated sigh. “Go ahead, say it.”

“Git gud, or get rekt!” Hana quips, giving him a smug flick of her eyebrow.

He rolls his eyes, about to say something when the door swings open. They both turn to watch their coach walk in. He’s on the phone, in the middle of what appears to be an important call, striding into the room with purpose. He glances over at Hana and throws her a brief smile and a thumb’s up. When Hana starts to stand, he waves her back down and points to his phone. He stands there for another moment, one hand nonchalantly stuffed into the pocket of his trousers. He looks a little more relaxed than usual, dressed in a shawl-collar cardigan and tie. He nods towards the door and mouths something along the lines of ‘ _I’ll be right back_ ’ on his way out of the room.

 

“He’s in a good mood,” her teammate comments, looking back over his shoulder and very much pointing out the obvious. He turns to look at Hana, with a shit-eating grin on his face. “How much do you want to bet that he’s cooking up some more extra work for you?” He says, waggling his eyebrows, and he keeps grinning even as he turns his attention back to the screen. He looks excessively pleased with himself, probably under the false impression that he’s turned the tables on her now or something.

It’s annoying and it makes Hana scowl; her eyes narrowed in an icy glare.

“Piss off, scrub,” she snarls, giving his chair a little kick only because she knows he’s right, and she can’t stand it.

As if on cue, she spies their coach arriving back, holding a handful of papers. “There you are,” he notes, voice meaning business, and Hana sits up a little straighter in her seat. Once he’s by her side, he reshuffles the files in his grasp before sprawling them all across her keyboard. He goes ahead to point at all the empty spaces that require a signature. “I need you to take a look at these, sign them and hand them back to me by the end of today. Read carefully through all the terms and conditions, and if you have any questions, we’ll discuss them later.”

Hana’s eyes skim over one of the sheets of paper she’s picked up. “What’s this? Another endorsement deal?”

“No, not this time,” her coach says. “We’re planning on releasing a series of DVD compilations with some of your best games from various competitions. They’ll include live commentary from two official shout-casters and from you, as well, of course – make sure you touch upon your longest winning streaks. Now, let's see, we’ll have to cram these recording sessions into your schedule…” He skims through something on his phone as he continues to explain, eyes flitting back and forth between Hana and his screen. “It’s shouldn’t be a problem. The second Super Tournament is only at the end of the month, and you have already won the two other Code S seasons, not to mention you have scored more than enough WCS points. You practically already have a guaranteed spot in the Global Finals.”

He leans a hand on the back of Hana’s chair, fingers tapping silently. He is standing close enough that Hana can smell his aftershave, minty and sharp. She scrunches her nose, shifting in her seat a little as he keeps talking.

“Also, don’t forget they need you to do some live-streaming on Twitch in a couple of days. A little bit of product placement here and there, you know how it goes. I scheduled a quick autograph signing session afterwards, too.”

Hana nods along in acknowledgement.

“You got this, don’t you?” he asks, and Hana hates it when he makes it sound more like a demand than a question. But she knows that this kind of cut-throat attitude is needed, more often than not. It’s what makes him a good coach. And him being a retired pro-gamer himself, she’s aware that he knows what he’s talking about.

Practice makes perfect. Winning brings sponsors, and sponsors bring money. It’s simple math, really. Hana gets it.

She gives him a sharp nod of agreement.

“Yeah, I got this,” she replies, flipping through some files, and something about the tone in her voice must have sounded a little off because it makes his expression soften a bit, all of a sudden. He eyes her silently for a beat, before awkwardly reaching out and squeezing her shoulder.

“I know you do. You always do,” he tells her. “Listen, I know I don’t make a habit out of saying this too often, but you make me proud, Song.” He sounds firm and sincere, and when he flicks his gaze away, Hana already knows what he’s about to say next. “For what it’s worth, I’m certain that _hyung_ —your father would have been very proud of you, too.”

They fall into a brief moment of silence, each looking absently at the desk, until the muffled sound of a phone ringing comes from his pocket. He fishes it out, giving her shoulder a little pat before pulling the phone to his ear, and Hana watches him stride out of the room.

He’s already back to making more solid arrangements, no doubt.

Hana sighs as she gathers all the printed copies that he left for her to sign off on, piling them up into a small stack of paper that she sets beside her keyboard. Truth be told, when all of this started, she didn’t expect it there to be so much extra work to do aside from the regular hours of practice. In hindsight, this should have probably been obvious – something she should’ve realized before everything was already in motion.

But then again, it’s almost insane, to think of everything that came on the heels of her winning her first championship at sixteen – or how the media insisted on dubbing it: her having the honor of making history by becoming the first female pro-gamer to win a major mixed-gender tournament – and the feeding frenzy that followed it. Hana should consider herself lucky, she knows. Most people don’t get to achieve their dream, let alone _live it_. But see, that’s the thing about reaching the top; once you do, there’s no other way to go but down.

And so, Hana has to be at the peak all the time.

Now, she doesn’t like to wallow in self-pity, but can you really blame her? In the swirling storm that her life has become, every so often, the pressure she feels is suffocating. Sometimes… she just needs a moment to breathe.

Hana tips her head back on her seat and closes her eyes, taking in the sounds around her: the constant hum of the computers, the incessant mouse clicking and key tapping, even the occasional munching. There’s an undercurrent of energy to it all and Hana lets it wash over her, reminding her of one of the many reasons why she enjoys pro-gaming so much in the first place; of why she does what she does.

Beyond the perks of stardom – the fame and the glamor. At the core of all of that, what she loves most is the challenge of it all.

It’s not supposed to be easy. It’s all about dedication and perseverance; sweat and tears. In the end, it’s a battlefield.

Hana draws in a determined breath, cracks her knuckles and pulls her own headset on; eyes fixed on the screen.

_And she plays to win._


	4. Coloring the Void

The doors of the elevator slide open on the 41th floor of the Park Hyatt’s upper-scale building and Angela steps out into the hotel’s elegant lobby. Passing through the beautiful glass-roofed atrium, with its small bamboo garden and polished marble floors, she can’t help but appreciate the tasteful design and architecture of this place.

 _There really is beauty in simplicity_ , she muses, as she saunters down the long corridor that takes her to the reception area. The colors here are gentle to the eye and the atmosphere is a cozy one, though, frankly, in her exhausted state of mind, she can barely pay attention to the people flitting in and out around her. It’s an out-of-focus stream of tourists, businessmen and employees bustling about even at this time of the day. ~~~~

The woman behind the front desk offers a polite bow as Angela walks by, and Angela acknowledges it with a nod on her way to the second bank of elevators. For a fleeting moment there, Angela could’ve sworn that the clerk wanted to tell her something but then ultimately decided against it. On second thought, it may very well be that her brain is playing a few tricks on her; a case of post-call delirium, who knows.

Angela fights back a yawn when she’s cut off by the soft _ding_ of the elevator arriving.

She backs up a pace or two just as the doors slide open to emit a small huddle of onlookers as they shuffle out into the reception.

Angela steps inside, pressing the button for her floor. From the corner of her eye, she notices the two other people beside her: a young mother who is cradling her son in her arms. The little boy is clinging onto her, clutching tightly onto the material of his mother’s dress as he tries to hide his sniffles in her long hair. He casts Angela a timid look from behind his lashes. His eyes are sad, his rosy cheeks wet with tears, and Angela gives him an encouraging smile in return. His eyes light up and he beams up at her, with one of his front teeth missing.

It reminds Angela of a video Reinhardt sent her the other day. Brigitte filmed him at one of the orphanages they sometimes volunteer at as reading companions. Reinhardt was proudly dressed as a knight, putting on a one-man show for a group of children, who appeared to be every bit as enthusiastic as he was. ‘ _Ah, looks like this old dog still knows a few tricks_ ,’ he had told Angela over the phone, and she could hear the humor in his voice – a trace of good-natured laughter behind his words that she remembers perfectly well from when she was little.

There is a lump in her throat now as she watches the small boy bury his face in his mother’s neck. She is brushing a tender hand over his sweat-stuck hair, and a tug of familiarity takes Angela back to what feels like a lifetime ago.

She’s seven years old, on a cold December day, sitting by the fireplace and hugging her knees close to her chest. With the sting of tears in her eyes, she watches the wood pop and crackle as it burns. Outside, the night is inky black and brisk, the wind is gusting and the snow swirls heavily, pattering softly against the windows. She sobs quietly, her small shoulders rising and falling with the effort of trying to keep it all inside.

She remembers Reinhardt gently lifting her up from the floor and onto his lap. ‘ _Shall I read to you?_ ’ he’d ask, and little Angela would nod, pressing her face into the soft flannel of his shirt, so that when he begins to read, she can feel the vibration of it, low and gravelly against her small cheek. It wasn’t even the story itself that she loved the most. It was the gruff sound of Reinhardt’s voice, the funny accents he did for each character, the way he let her turn the pages.

Whenever Angela would miss her parents, he’d tell her stories of heroes and brave knights. Incredible stories in which the heroes never die.

He’d tell her about how he met her father, how they once fought alongside each other, seeking glory in an endless pursuit of peace.

At times, he would clumsily try to braid her hair the way her mother used to – two braids over her shoulders – and he’d gladly let her braid his hair, too. It was a time when Reinhardt’s hair was ridiculously long and blonde, and Angela finds herself smiling fondly at the recollection now. She’s immensely grateful for everything Reinhardt has done for her over the course of her life. He stepped in when she had no else to turn to.

 

Angela pats her pockets down for the room key until she finds it, and she unlocks the door, slipping inside. At this time of late dusk, the wide windows in her hotel suite are already reflecting the many lights of the city and their soft glow envelop the space in enough of light to see by, so Angela doesn’t bother with a light switch. She shrugs off her coat and hangs it up neatly in the rack, then she unbuttons her white shirt enough to loosen the collar around her neck. She pulls the elastic band from her ponytail—her hair falling freely to her shoulders.

She goes to pour herself a glass of iced orange juice. She could use a healthy dose of Vitamin C.

Her day went by in a blur of work and physically draining routine. Not only that, but it also involved mind numbing stacks of paperwork. She rubs absently at the bridge of her nose, where she can still feel the pinch of her reading glasses, then she slowly massages her temples in an effort to rid herself of the impending headache she feels coming up.

On the bright side of it, being a locum tenens has its perks. With overtime being negotiable, it makes for a slightly more flexible schedule.

She vaguely recalls the note of pride in Reinhardt’s voice when she had first told him about accepting a short-term placement in Gibraltar, all those years ago. He’d jested that his taste for adventure must have rubbed off of on her. Now, Angela doesn’t want to quash his optimistic outlook, so she doesn’t tell him that, while these type of business opportunities do offer a broader experience than working in a single clinical setting, she isn’t so sure that she ended up spending part of her career as a traveling doctor chasing the thrill of an adventure.

That seems like a luxury. Angela thinks, more than anything and much like everything else, for her, it had simply become a habit. Or, perhaps, she is merely seeking a change of pace, every once in a while. In the monotony that her life has become, it often feels as though her days are simply bleeding into one another, blending together into some strange limbo-like existence, of which all that remains is a quiet resignation.

A colorless and empty feeling.

 _Tired until I retire_ , as they say.

Angela sighs, thumb rubbing against the edge of the glass. Now there’s a slogan to see her through the next decades. She picks up her glass and takes a sip, holds it in her mouth, and then swallows it. For a moment, a bitter aftertaste remains on her tongue, but it soon disappears.

She lets her eyes wander around her hotel suite, from the king-sized bed with its pure white cotton sheets, to the sprawling leather sofa by the floor-to-ceiling windows. Every single piece of furniture and detail speaks of luxury and no personal touch.

It is a perfect place, truly. Aesthetically pleasing, but cold in its tranquility.

Angela stares at the bottom of her empty glass, rattling the ice with a gentle swirl. She abandons it on the coffee table and she sits down heavily in one of the leather chairs, resting her palms against the cushioned arms. She draws in a long, soothing breath.

The spiky outline of the Shinjuku district is spread out before her, all twinkling lights and staggering scale.

Angela unbuckles her wristwatch, which had once belonged to her mother, and in turn, was a gift from her father. She holds it up to her ear, dangling it by the strap. She listens closely to it ticking for a little while, echoing in the stillness around, then she places it neatly on the coffee table nearby. She sits back in her chair and she feels the full weight of the silence press down on her. With her consciousness tethering somewhere on the edge of sleep, the blurry city lights in the distance of the night scenery remind her of the bouncy lights of fireflies.

It’s beautiful, and Angela aches with the sight of it, the grip of nostalgia still tight and heavy around her heart.

She closes her eyes, listening to the tick of the clock.

She lets that sound take her back to the meadows at the countryside. The smell of the grass, the faint chill of the wind, the line of the hills, the clouds in the sky: all these details, they come with absolute clarity. Like an old movie reel, she can play the memory at will; each breath is a time machine, and just for a few precious minutes, she’s six years old all over again. In the afternoon, her father gives her an airplane ride, spinning her round and round. The world turns into a blur of green and gold, and she’s flying—flying until she can spin no more. In the evening, the crickets are loud across the grassy field as she chases fireflies and her mother ambles along. When her small palms latch onto one, at last, she turns to her mother, who smiles back at her, nodding towards the night sky above. Little Angela opens her palms, and they both watch it flutter away.

Long after that firefly had disappeared, the trail of its light remained with her.

Even now, in the present, its pale, faint glow hovers on and on in the thick darkness behind her eyelids like a lost soul.

In her dreams, the lights of those fireflies flicker on.

In her dreams, that dreaded morning never comes.

But in the midst of sleep, she hears the morbid cry of the birds at the break of dawn.

 

‘ _Stay under the bed, **liebe**. Everything will be alright_.’

 

An empty promise.

A gunshot.

In the blink of an eye, her mother’s life is snuffed out like a candle; just like her father’s.

 

The end comes with a deafening absence of sound.

 

 

 

 

The ringing of a phone startles Angela awake.

Disoriented, she almost knocks her watch off the coffee table in a blind grab for it. It looks like she’s only dozed off for about half an hour. She rubs her knuckles onto one eye and blinks, already up and across the room to liberate the portable phone from its white plastic cradle. “Hello?”

“ _Miss Ziegler, there is a Miss Hana Song waiting at the end of the line. Do you wish to be connected?_ ”

The name makes Angela pause and think. _Hana Song…_ A brush of familiarity presses on her tongue, and she feels mildly confused, unable to pinpoint exactly when and where she’s heard or seen that name before. Could it be that this person had been a patient of hers? Or perhaps—

“ _Miss Ziegler?_ ” The clerk’s voice pierces through her daze, and she sounds as though she has already repeated Angela’s name more than once.

“Yes,” Angela answers quickly, curiosity eventually getting the better of her, “I will accept the call. Thank you.”

She hears a beep, and then there is a moment’s pause during which Angela combs her fingers through her tousled hair. Finally bothering with the light switch of a lamp nearby, she passes by a bookcase and walks over to the desk in her workspace corner, leaning against its edge. She fidgets absently with the hem of her shirt, rubbing at an invisible spot with her thumb.

“Hello?” she asks, tentatively, after a beat or two of silence. There is a bit of static on the line, and she can hear someone breathe in. Angela sits up a little straighter, brows knitting. She tries again. “Hello?”

“ _Hi, um, I asked to talk to you the other day, but you weren’t there so I decided to give it another shot. It’s late, I know, I’m sorry for bothering you. I just wanted to thank you for giving that pink charm to the Lost and Found, that’s all. It’s important to me so, yeah, thanks a lot!_ ”

Angela blinks, taken aback by this small tornado of fast-paced words. It sounded almost as though it was a practiced speech or as though it was written down and the girl was merely reading it out loud. “Well.” Angela switches the receiver from her left hand to her right while her brain attempts to process everything she’s heard. She’s not even sure which part to address first so she settles for the first thought that comes to her mind. “It was the right thing to do,” she says, scratching near an eyebrow with the tip of her little finger.

On the other end of the line, the girl – _Hana_ , Angela reminds herself – huffs out a quiet laugh. “ _Yeah, well, not everyone would have done that. Especially not if they knew whom it belonged to…”_ She drawls, almost as if she’s just offered a big hint and she’s now expecting a certain reaction in return. Angela feels a tiny jolt of recognition; something about this girl’s voice strikes her as awfully familiar. She wonders why, and then, as though plucking the thought straight out of Angela’s head, Hana says, “ _Huh, so, I’m guessing you have no idea **who** I am, do you?_ ”

Angela is at a loss. She’s this close to asking, ‘Should I?’ when all of a sudden, her eyes widen in realization.

She bolts upright as if struck by lightning, her mind rushing a mile a minute, trying to piece every little familiar detail together to form the bigger picture. She hurries over to the bookcase, her fingers quickly trailing over the spines of each book on the top shelf until she spots her copy of ‘ _Tales by Edgar A. Poe_ ’ that she finished reading yesterday. She picks it up, and wedges the phone between her ear and her shoulder while she flips through the pages with her thumb until she finds what she’s been looking for.

Everything clicks into place then, and she adjusts her grip on the receiver.

“I do know who you are,” Angela says, at last, her gaze settling on the small piece of wrinkled gum wrapper that she’s neatly tucked between the pages of that book. She feels a smile tug at her lips, despite how exhausted she feels. Hana Song and D.Va are one and the same, Angela concludes. Just like _The Purloined Letter_ , the answer was hidden in plain sight all along.

“ _Oh!_ _So you **are** a fan then?_ ” Hana asks, and Angela chuckles, the sound escaping her before she can think twice about it. Because, really, what is it with this girl and her constantly assuming that Angela is her fan?

“No,” Angela says, smiling into the receiver. She looks closely at the piece of crinkled paper in her hand, turning it over in her fingers like she’d suddenly find more words or a secret message there. “Though, I am starting to think you’d really like me to be your fan.”

Angela only meant it as a joke, of course, a little bit of harmless teasing, but instead, she is immediately hit with the realization of how undeniably flirty that must have sounded when the line goes dead silent. For a second there, she even begins to think that the call must have dropped out, then she finally hears Hana’s voice coming through.

“ _Right_ ,” she says, evidently not sure how to respond. She sounds utterly confused.

“We’ve met,” Angela blurts out before she can think any better of it. “A few days ago, at the airport in Beijing? You gave me your autograph…” She swallows, nervously. She’s already trying to think of other hints she could give to make things clearer when, much to her surprise, the whole line explodes with laughter.

“ _That was **you**?! No way!_ ”

Hana bursts into another gale of laughter – a free, unreserved kind of laugh that pushes away the gray edge of fatigue, and Angela finds that she can’t hold back her own smile anymore, shaking her head, her shoulders significantly more relaxed than they had been a moment ago.

“That was me, indeed,” she confirms, her own words melting into laughter. She can’t help it, really. Hana’s laugh is kind of infectious, and Angela lets the joyful absurdity of it all just bubble out of her. After all, it’s nothing if not amusing, how one thing led to another in the grand scheme. “It’s truly a small world, as they say.”

“ _Yeah…_ ” Hana drawls on a shaky exhale. “ _So, um,_ _thanks again for what you did. It really means a lot to me._ ”

“You’re welcome,” Angela tells her. “I sincerely hope it gets back to you safely.”

“ _Me too,_ ” Hana says, then lightly clears her throat before adding, “ _Well, that’s all I wanted to say, so…_ ” There’s a hint of hesitation in her tone that makes Angela think she’s not quite ready to hang up just yet, but it turns out to be mere wishful thinking on her part because Hana does let her go with two simple words: _“Good night.”_

“Good night,” Angela echoes, pulling the phone receiver down. In the low light of the room, her eyes trace over the lines of Hana’s loopy handwriting. Smiling to herself, Angela runs her thumb absently over the signature; at this point, she has it memorized.

And so, with her interest piqued, she takes a seat at her desk and tips up the silver lid of her laptop. She lowers the brightness on the screen and opens her web browser, sifting through some unread emails before opening a new tab. It takes her a while, just staring at a blank page, dragging her mouse cursor around the screen, before she finally brings herself to click on the search bar.

Truth be told, Angela feels vaguely uncomfortable doing this and yet, despite herself, her fingers are already typing the girl’s name.

 _Hana Song,_ she repeats in her mind, and those two little words inevitably set off a chain reaction that starts with a Google search and ends up with Angela mining the twists and turns of the internet. She reads a lot of new information, several articles and interviews in which Hana addresses questions that have to do with the world of pro-gaming and e-sports. Angela almost laughs out loud at how ridiculously different this all seems from her own life; like a parallel dimension she would’ve never imagined herself wandering into. But she has to admit that she’s more than a little intrigued, and she bookmarks some pages for a later read.

Scrolling through some other links, she stumbles upon Hana’s official Twitter page. Verified blue checkmark and all, Hana seems to be very active on social media. Some of her posts are in English but most of them are written in Hangul, which Angela can’t read and the translation Twitter provides is hardly of any help. Well, Angela gets the gist of it, at the very least. It’s quite obvious Hana loves to interact with her fans.

There are some group shots of Hana with her team, all of them dressed in matching jackets. There is one of Hana holding up a trophy, smiling ever so brightly, with colorful lights and confetti all around her, and Angela smiles, too, when she notices that small pink charm in more than one photo. There are some pictures that look like they came from professional photo shoots, and Angela prefers to pretend that her eyes don’t tend to linger on every strip of exposed skin, but mostly, and clearly, Hana is very fond of taking pictures of herself.

 _And she should,_ Angela muses, taking in Hana’s lovely features. Without a doubt, she is a very attractive young woman.

She spends another ten carefree minutes clicking her way through the image gallery, then her eyes catch onto a particular piece of information. She gapes at the screen and does a double check. Apparently, she’s somehow managed to disregard this up until now but Hana Song, according to the bio on her profile, is 19.

Angela feels an irrational surge of disappointment as she leans back in her chair, rubbing her forehead wearily with the heel of her hand.

_Nineteen years old…_

She only has a vague memory now – blurred and indistinct – of what it’s like to be that young again, with your whole life ahead and teetering on the decisions you are about to make…

 

The clock on the screen reads 11:20 PM. She has spent nearly two hours on this ‘online adventure’ and she is suddenly aware of how bizarre this all is, since she doesn’t normally react this way to complete strangers. She certainly doesn’t follow them around on social media websites. Is this considered stalking? No, if anything, this is only cyber-stalking, her sleep-addled brain helpfully provides, as if that’s any better.

 _Mein Gott_. Angela shakes her head, trying to get ahold of herself.

She moves the mouse to close the browser when a new retweet pops up on Hana’s feed.

Well, one more video won’t kill her, Angela reasons as she clicks on the _play_ button.

From what she can tell, it’s a commercial for some brand of bubblegum; she recognizes the logo from that wrapper Hana had written her autograph on. And the video itself looks fairly recent, most likely filmed sometime during the summer season. It takes on a very colorful theme and it seems to have some sort of glamorous pin-up fashion style going on for it.

The camera shifts to Hana, sitting by the side of a pool, playing a video game and popping bubblegum. She is dressed in high-waisted jean shorts, a dotted bikini top, and Angela squirms in her seat. She can’t help but wonder if the intention is to _seduce_ the viewers into buying their product. Either way, Hana is very much so a natural at flirting with a camera. It occurs to Angela that she forgot to unmute the video and as soon as she does, the lively tune of a Korean pop song filters in. On the screen, Hana winks at her and the lyrics that follow are in English:

 

_YEAH BABY DANCING WITH ME YOU’RE MY STAR[TOUCH MY BODY](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Q33SoblaZbU)_

 

Angela scrambles to exit the tab.

That is hardly an appropriate choice of background music for a commercial about chewing bubblegum.

 

_MY BODY BODY TOUCH MY BODY TOUCH MY BODY BODY TOUCH MY BODY—_

 

Angela slams her laptop shut, surely a bit harder than is good for it.

She heaves a deep breath of relief.

“Nineteen,” Angela reminds herself sternly by repeating it out loud, because she thinks it’s an important point to establish.

After a quick shower, and long after she’s crawled under the covers, she lies awake, staring at the ceiling, with a bad case of the stuck song syndrome. She tosses and turns throughout the night, but her mind shows no mercy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case anyone's wondering, my thought process as I wrote this chapter went like this basicallly:
> 
> Half of my brain = Introspection! Depth! Existential Angst!  
> Other half of my brain = https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZZ5LpwO-An4
> 
> RIP.


	5. Late Night Frequency

Finishing her third block of practice, Hana takes her headset off, satisfied with her progress for the day. She flexes her right hand, trying to get rid of the numb sensation in her wrist, then she exits the game and sits back in her chair, away from the glowing screen. She rubs the heels of her hands against her eyes, watching the spots of color dance under the pressure.

She blinks at the ceiling until her vision clears, looking for shapes in the shadows casted by the late evening sunlight.

The computer powers off and without its constant hum, the apartment is now quiet.

If she listens closely, she thinks she can hear the distant rush of waves from the beach outside the titled windows of her bedroom. It’s only September, but with the sun almost gone, there’s a chill in the air, and Hana can feel it in those tiniest breezes that seep inside and make their way to her, tickling her skin and sending goose bumps crawling up across her bare arms.

She walks over to the windows, where the vertical blinds are still drawn. She tugs on the cord, pulling hand over hand. She watches as they slowly part sideways and the skyline reveals itself inches at a time, letting the outside world in and granting a sprawling view of the Haeundae Beach and the Gwangan Bridge in the distance.

The sky is streaked with orange, and the water looks golden in the last hours of the day. There are still a few boats on the horizon, silhouettes against the setting sun, and a deep sense of serenity overcomes her as she stands there for a moment, just taking it all in.

She stretches her arms above her head, relishing the strain in her back muscles as they loosen.

She closes the windows and stifles a yawn on her way to the bathroom, where she brushes her teeth and takes a lukewarm shower.

Dried off and in her pajamas, she grabs her good-luck charm from the nightstand and hops backwards onto the bed, sinking into the warmth of her mattress. She holds the small charm up in her hand and runs her thumb over the smooth surface. It’s light pink and bunny-shaped, rounded at the edges, and Hana feels the weight of it between her fingers; it’s heavy with memories and meaning, yet strangely enough, right now, it makes her think of something else entirely.

She rolls over to the bedside table to place the charm beside her phone, and she steals a glance at the digital clock before collapsing back onto the pillows with a huff. She throws an arm over her eyes. It’s probably too late to call now anyway.

 _Just forget about it,_ she tells herself. It’s been two days already. _Who cares that you forgot to ask her name?_ It doesn’t matter. She sighs deeply, tossing and turning, trying to force her thoughts in a different direction, but her eyes still dart over to her phone every few minutes.

She ends up lying on her stomach, with her feet absently kicking the air while she’s chewing on her thumb nail.

Tired body and restless mind.

Hana makes an impulsive decision.

She unplugs her phone from the charger and sits up. Her thumb hovers over the screen until it dims and she has to wake it up again. _Should she really do this?_ Then on the flip side, _could she deal with **not** doing this?_ She pads around the space of her bedroom in her pajamas and slippers, trying to pace away the nerves as she weighs the pros and cons, well aware that this whole thing might just be a tad on the wrong side of crazy.

She abandons her phone on the kitchen countertop, and she finds herself staring vacantly into the refrigerator, not even sure what she was looking for in the first place. She settles for a can of strawberry-flavored Milkis, and she closes the door with a sigh, frowning at the fluttering Post-it note on which she’s scribbled a reminder to ‘call the hotel again’. But that was before she did call again.

She was so eager to just say thank you and get it over with but that was before she found out that woman is the same one she met at the airport in Beijing. Turns out she isn’t even a fan, so Hana practically ended up making herself look like a total condescending ass.

She groans as she crumples up the small piece of paper and throws it into the bin.

She plops down on a stool at the kitchen island and pops her can open, sipping quietly while trying to gather her thoughts.

She rests her elbow on the marble top and slouches forward with the side of her face cupped in one palm until she finishes her drink.

Then she grabs her phone, rubbing her thumb idly over the case and wrinkling her nose, deep in thought. At this point, it’s almost like she’s purposely looking for an excuse to talk to that woman again when really, she should just go back to minding her own damn business. _Ugh._ She buries her cheek in the crook of her arm, rubbing her itchy nose against the soft material of her sleeve in sheer frustration.

 _This is so stupid_ , Hana thinks, but her fingers are already typing. She dials the hotel’s number from memory and her nerves kick up a notch as she listens to it ring. She can already picture the lobby, with that stern-looking woman behind the front desk, and Hana is now dreading the fact that she’ll have to go through the whole ‘ _blah blah privacy policy_ ’ debacle once again.

Luckily, the clerk didn’t need nearly as much convincing this time around and soon enough the line goes silent for what feels like a very, _very_ long moment while her call is being redirected. Hana taps her foot against the floor to an impatient beat that matches the unsteady thumping in her chest as she tries to figure out what to say—

“ _Hello?_ ” A smooth voice pierces through her frantic thoughts, and Hana is quick to recognize that faint foreign accent that tinges the woman’s words. She sounds a little surprised which, fair enough, is a totally valid reaction.

Hana springs to her feet, chair screeching on the tiled floor.

“Hi, uh, it’s me,” she says, but her tone comes out a bit questioning, like she isn’t completely sure that it’s her either. _Great. Hello from the other side_. Now what. There’s a brief silence and Hana starts to worry the line went dead. “Hana,” she explains quickly. “Song-Hana?”

“ _Yes, I know,_ ” the woman says, with a note of amusement in her tone. “ _I was told beforehand who the caller is_.”

Obviously, _duh._ Hana gives herself a mental slap on her way back to the bedroom. She starts pacing around, back and forth, unable to hold still. “Right,” she says, feeling herself beginning to ramble, too, but unable to stop, “that clerk lady probably hates me by now. I annoyed the crap out of her. She thinks I’m some hack, I bet.” Hana will have to make sure to leave her a big fat tip the next time she drops by that hotel, if ever.

On the other end of the line, the woman makes a sound that resembles a quiet chuckle. It’s muffled, as though she’s covered the receiver in an effort to stop it from being heard over the phone at full volume. “ _I can imagine_ ,” she says. “ _It’s not an easy feat to convince them to let a stranger talk to a guest in the first place._ ”

Her voice is full of amusement and it makes Hana feel oddly triumphant.

She kicks off her slippers and sprawls herself out on the bed, feeling the tension in her shoulders relax. She smiles almost reflexively as she says, “Yeah, well, I’m no stranger. She knows me, I mean. I’ve roomed at that same hotel plenty of times. And trust me, I can be _very_ persuasive.” She feels slightly ridiculous, though, as she says that. Hana doesn’t know why, but she feels the need to impress this woman.

“ _I don’t doubt that,_ ” the woman says. “ _Did you get your good-luck charm yet?_ ”

“Right, yeah—yeah, I did.” Her mind drifts to the padded envelope on her desk, eagerly torn open and kept for the sole purpose of popping the bubble wrap. “Express delivery and all that,” Hana says, examining her nails in the low light. “But, speaking of strangers… that’s why I called again, actually. You never told me your name. I mean, I forgot to ask but, anyway. You know my name so it’s only fair I get to know yours, too, don’t you think?”

“ _That’s true_ ,” she says. “ _We haven’t been formally introduced yet, have we? My name is Angela Ziegler._ ”

Her foreign accent thickens with the pronunciation of her name, rolling off her tongue in a way that makes Hana shiver a little.

She curls her toes into the sheets, wincing a little when they pop. She shakes her head. _Focus_. The reason why she called is gone. Now would be the moment when she should bid the woman goodbye, hang up and move on, but instead, Hana finds herself saying something else in return. “How do I know that’s your real name though?” She smirks, propping herself up onto her elbow; her tone slightly teasing.

“ _I’d say you passed on the mistrust card when you fell asleep on my shoulder_.”

Hana scrambles to sit cross-legged, words already coming up to defend herself. “Whoa, hold on! For the record, that was my first time!”

She hears a loud bang from the other end of the line which lets her know that Angela must have dropped or accidentally hit something. Hana blinks, brows furrowed in mild confusion, and there’s an awkward pause until she finally realizes exactly what she just said. _Aish_. Her eyes squeeze shut, internally cringing at the way she phrased that. She pinches the bridge of her nose. “First time doing something like that, I mean. I don’t, like, normally fall asleep on random strangers in public spaces, obviously,” she says. “It’s never happened to me before.”

The faint sound of shuffling papers fills up the brief silence before Angela speaks up again.

“ _Well._ ” She clears her throat. “ _I have to admit it’s somewhat of a relief to know that you don’t make a habit out of falling asleep on strangers in places such as airports. Some people might take advantage of unfortunate situations like that._ ”

“I guess I’m really lucky, then. That it was _you_ out of all people.”

“ _I suppose that’s true_.”

The call goes silent for another moment and Hana is already trying to figure out what else to say, licking her lips absently in a nervous fidget while the wheels in her head spin frantically in an effort to find some other topic of conversation.

“So. Business or pleasure?” She asks, if only to stall for time.

“ _I beg your pardon?_ ”

Hana can practically hear the embarrassment creeping into Angela’s voice and she can’t help but laugh. It’s so easy to wind her up, Hana thinks. It’s actually kind of charming in a way. She grins. “I mean, what’s your deal? Why are you in Tokyo?”

“ _Oh._ ” Angela clears her throat again. “ _Business._ ”

“What kind of business? Do tell. I kind of want to hear more about you.”

“ _Me?_ ” Angela says, sounding overly modest. “ _There’s not much to tell._ ”

“Sure there is. C’mon,” Hana insists, rolling her eyes even though Angela can’t see it. “You can find stuff about me on the internet. Everything’s, like, a few clicks away. It’s a little unfair that I don’t have that kind of advantage.”

“ _How are you so sure? Have you already looked me up?_ ”

Hana scoffs. “Psh, _no_ ,” she drawls breathlessly as she fumbles around, looking for her laptop.

“But I’m about to,” she warns playfully once she’s back to sitting cross-legged on the bed, with the laptop balanced on her lap and her fingers already hovering over the touchpad, ready to tap it awake. “Do you mind?”

“ _Not at all. You have my permission_ ,” Angela tells her, then after another beat, she adds, sounding almost hesitant and a little self-conscious, “ _Though I’m not so sure you’ll find the results to be very interesting…_ ”

“You don’t know that,” Hana retorts, frowning a little as she clicks between pre-opened tabs to get to Naver. On a second thought, she realizes she’s probably not going to find anything on there so she has to open a new tab for Google. _Foreigners and their overrated search engines…_ Hana clicks her tongue irately, the phone wedged between her shoulder and her ear as she quickly types Angela’s full name.

She watches as several articles unspool across the screen.

By the looks of it, Angela is not very active on social media, and so these articles make up most of her online presence. Hana clicks through the results and falls down the rabbit hole of online medical information until she’s not sure what the hell she’s even reading anymore. At least, she figures, if she’ll ever need any kind of bone surgery or whatever, she has a useful connection now.

There’s a recent article about some brand new medical discovery and it seems important, but Hana’s eyes are glued to the picture attached.

She hasn’t really paid that much attention to Angela’s looks the first time around, honestly. Hana was too tired and caught up in her own head then, but now, she can’t help but gape at the screen. Make no mistake, Hana is confident enough in her own good-looks that she doesn’t feel threatened, nor does she feel a tinge of jealousy, no. Instead, she’s feeling something akin to admiration. Even she has to admit that this woman is… _wow_. She’s gorgeous, no doubt about that. We’ve got a winner of the genetic lottery here.

She's aware that she's getting dangerously close to reaching the stalker end of the creeper spectrum at this rate, but then again, when it comes to the internet, anything goes. Hana sweeps her moral objections under the mat and reads ahead, eyes darting back and forth across the screen. She finally finds what she’s been looking for and almost gasps out loud. _Holy shit. She’s 37?!_ Damn. What’s her secret? Hana can only hope she’ll look _that_ good at that age. She keeps staring at that photo until she suddenly remembers that Angela is still on the phone with her.

Hana clears her throat. “So you’re a doctor, huh? Says here you’re from Switzerland. I would’ve guessed Germany.”

“ _A common misassumption_.”

Hana nods as she mindlessly clicks through links. “Right, so how come you’re working so far away from home?”

“ _I am what some people call a traveling physician,_ ” Angela explains, and Hana’s eyes are already skimming over definitions, her brows furrowed in concentration. “ _I am currently holding a locum tenens position here_.”

“A _loco_ what? Isn’t that, like, Spanish for _crazy_?”

Angela actually laughs at that, uninhibited and relaxed. “ _It’s Latin, actually. And it’s_ **_locum tenens_** ,” she clarifies, stressing the pronunciation of each word. Her laughter is rich and warm, and it wraps around Hana’s ears like a cozy blanket on a cold day.

It’s definitely a sound Hana could get used to hearing more.

“Didn’t know that was a thing.” She smiles as she opens another tab to quickly look that up. Who would have thought that she’d one day actually spend time looking up Latin terms on the internet? Now,  _this_ is loco-crazy.

 _“It is very much so a thing, yes._ ”

Hana hums in acknowledgement, clicking another random link and winding up on a webpage that apparently used to belong to some international volunteer organization called Overwatch. She smiles as she scrolls through some images. Angela looks younger here, maybe just a bit older than Hana is now. She looks happy.

_And what in the name of fashion is that guy wearing? Is that supposed to be a Clint Eastwood cosplay or something?_

 

Hana's brows shot up in surprise when she spots a familiar face. “Oh, you know Mei? I know her, too! Well, I don’t really know her _know her_ , like, in real life,” she says. “I know her online, I mean. I read her blog and I’m pretty sure she knows who I am, too, so…”

Angela chuckles. “ _Shall I ask her?_ ”

“Sure, you can ask her.” Hana nods, hiding a small yawn behind her hand. The room has grown dark apart from the white glow of the computer screen on her face, she notices. The city outside her windows has already surrendered to the night and Hana can feel the need for sleep itching in her bones and curling at the edges of her mind, but she’s determined to stay on the phone for as long as Angela wants to talk to her.

“How did you two meet by the way?” She prompts, not wanting to pry too much but also genuinely curious.

Angela does tell her and Hana smiles into the phone as she listens with interest. Her mind collects all the little pieces of information that Angela is willing to offer, and she stores them away for later. She finds that she really likes the way Angela talks, and the soothing sound of her voice.

“It’s kind of cool that you get to travel so much.”

“ _Yes, well, you do, too, don’t you?_ ”

“Sometimes. I have to do it for some of my sponsorship deals or tournaments. Usually, I only get to go when and where I’m needed.”

“ _I see. That sounds… tiresome._ ”

“Yeah. It’s not really the same as traveling for fun, but you get used to it.”

“ _We can agree on that,”_ Angela tells her. _“We might have more in common than I thought, you and I..._ ”

“Maybe we do,” Hana says, adjusting the laptop from where it’s awkwardly balanced on her legs. The screen has dimmed with inactivity and when she catches sight of her reflection in the dark, she realizes that she hasn’t really stopped smiling.

She closes the lid of her laptop and sets it aside.

Neither of them say anything else nor do they make a move to hang up, and so they ease themselves into a moment of comfortable silence in which they just listen to each other breathe for a little while. Hana pulls her knees up so she can rest her chin on them, and closes her eyes. Torn between the desire to ask more and the fear that she’s already going overboard with this, a small sigh escapes her lips. She wonders if she’s being too selfish.

“Sorry for taking so much of your time,” she mumbles, cheek still pressed against her knee. She looks down at her socked feet peeking out from the bottom of her cotton sleep pants. “I’m guessing you’re busy?”

“ _It’s quite alright. I was merely reviewing some charts_.”

“Well, it was nice talking to you...” Hana falters. She doesn’t know why, but she doesn’t want this to end just yet.

Part of her needs to know that maybe it can happen again.

“Do you—”

“ _I could—_ ”

“Oh, sorry.” Hana laughs, rubbing at one eye with the tips of her fingers. “What were you gonna say?”

“ _I could talk to the front desk receptionist if you want_ ,” Angela tells her, voice soft and maybe just a tad uncertain, _“I could let them know that it’s fine to connect you right away without a hassle the next time you call—that’s not to say that I **expect** you to call again, of course, but just in case you ever want to call again…_ ”

Hana can’t help but smile. “Actually, I have a better idea. I was gonna ask you to give me your KakaoTalk ID.”

“ _I’m sorry, I’m not sure what that is?_ ”

“Are you for real? You don’t have KaTalk? I guess you wouldn’t, huh… then how about LINE?”

“ _A line?_ ” Angela asks, sounding a little sleepy and confused. Hana thinks it’s kind of endearing, really, and she opens her mouth to explain but then Angela gives an embarrassed chuckle. “ _Oh, you’re talking about the instant messaging app_ , _I see… well, it’s not the one I normally use but I could give it a try._ ”

“Cool. Then let’s go for KakaoTalk since I already have that one installed. Tell you what,” Hana grins into the phone, already pushing off the bed. Her socked feet slip a little on the smooth linoleum floor in her dash across the room. She grabs the stack of memos beside the keyboard on her desk. “Give me your phone number and I’ll text you my ID so you can add me after you download the app and make an account. Deal?”

Perks of being rich, Hana thinks, is that she doesn’t need to worry about the insane fees they are surely going to charge her for these long international calls, but it’s still a better and smarter idea to go for an app that offers that very same service for free. She hears Angela hum in understanding on the other end of the line as she considers it for a moment and then finally comes to a decision. “ _Alright. Do you have something to write on?_ ” she asks just as Hana’s fingers brush against a pencil. She takes a deep breath and positions it above the paper.

“Yep.” Hana nods as she writes the digits down, one by one. And before she hangs up, instead of bidding Angela good night, Hana tells her, “I’ll talk to you soon then.”

She plops back onto the bed and smiles to herself as she adds Angela to her contacts under the name: 박사님

Double checking the digits on the screen before hitting _Save_ , Hana sends Angela the promised text and holds her phone up to stare at the screen, her stomach knotting up with excitement and mild anxiety. She wonders if Angela will really go for it.

_She is a doctor, after all. She probably has tons of other things to do with her free time, doesn’t she?_

 

Her phone buzzes in her hand and Hana’s heart thuds loudly in her chest when she sees the notification finally pop up on the small screen. She beams as she stares at the username, amused by the fact that Angela didn’t actually register with her full name like Hana expected her to.

She chose **_Mercy_** , instead.

 

Hana giggles as she starts typing her first message and she hits _Send_ before she can think better of it.

 

 **[pm11:18] D.Va:** lmao is that supposed to be like angel of mercy or what

 

Once again, she sits in the dark, awaiting Angela’s response. The little ‘1’ next to her message lets her know that Angela has already read it, so either she can’t settle on what to say or she decided to ditch the conversation.

Another minute goes by and Hana feels a tiny jolt of panic, thinking that she might have offended Angela or scared her off. She knows it’s hard to pick up on any emotional meaning in a text, but she hopes Angela can tell that Hana is only teasing.

She debates on whether or not to add an emoji or a sticker when Angela’s message finally comes through.

Hana wipes an invisible bead of sweat from her forehead. _Phew._ Crisis averted.

 

 **[pm11:21] Mercy:** Angela Ziegler was already taken. My choices were limited.

 

Hana gives a little snort.

 

 **[pm11:22] D.Va:** sure thing, doc. let’s pretend i believe you

 

This time, she sends Angela a cute cat sticker with a winky face. Better safe than sorry, right?

 _Damn._ Last time Hana had to be this super level of careful was back when she was trying to catch her very first Shiny Pokemon, desperately hoping it wouldn’t flee. Though, in the end, it was definitely worth the struggle.

 

 **[pm11:22] Mercy:** How do I do that emoticon?

 **[pm11:23] D.Va:** lol you mean the stickers?

 **[pm11:23] D.Va:** hold on a sec

Hana quickly goes to the Item Store to buy a few sticker sets and sends them to Angela without mentioning that she actually paid for them. She begins to explain how to use them, grinning from ear to ear. She’s having way too much fun with this. Angela sends her a bunch of stickers to try them out, and it’s sort of stupidly adorable, if Hana is being honest. She has to bite her lip to keep herself from smiling like an idiot in the dark. Stupid autocorrect keeps trying to capitalize her words and mess with her, but not even that can wreck her mood.

For almost an hour, they write back and forth, a conversation punctuated by short periods of waiting, where Hana keeps watch over her phone, blinking hazily at the screen and wiggling her toes inside her socks in a subtle and absent-minded dance of joy. It’s well past midnight and she feels the dull shimmer of fatigue, pressing from somewhere deep inside her, slowly dragging her into slumber. She yawns and blinks tiredly.

 

 **[am12:37] Mercy:** I think we should call it a night, what do you say?

 **[am12:37] D.Va:** agreed. I have to get up early in the morning

 

Hana types ‘ _good night_ ’ eventually, as her eyelids grow heavy and the screen starts to swim in front of her eyes.

**[am12:39] Mercy:** Good night, Hana

 

Angela sends her another ‘funny sticker’ and Hana thinks she’s created a monster. She giggles a little as she closes the app and rolls onto her side to place her phone on the bedside table and plug it in to charge. Settling her head back against the pillows, she squirms around until she’s got her legs under the covers. She closes her eyes, feeling all fuzzy-headed and heavy-limbed and unreasonably happy.

She drifts off to sleep and behind her eyelids, she can see it now. The details growing sharper, like a photo coming into focus.

In her dreams, Hana sees blonde hair, and blue eyes, like comets across the night sky…


	6. Magnetic Minds

It’s barely eight in the morning but there are already hushed voices and the sounds of anxious footsteps echoing against the sleek floors of the hospital’s lobby. Small nests of people scattered around the padded chairs of the waiting area, all of them standing by for test results, visiting hours, information or news concerning their loved ones. In-between various announcements, the speakers overhead play calm instrumental music at just the right level to give everyone around an emotional lift, but in spite of that, the bright fluorescent lights and the monotone decor of the lobby somehow make it seem as though nobody here managed to get a wink of sleep in weeks.

 _It can’t be helped,_ Angela thinks. Private healthcare facility or not, a hospital is still a hospital, no matter what. The air still holds that undertone of bleach – or rather, a very distinct smell of antiseptic – which tends to make some people nauseous, but Angela herself is so used to it that she doesn’t mind it at all. In fact, she doesn’t find it to be entirely unpleasant. She thinks it has a pure fragrance; not exactly sterile, just clean.

She picks a path down one of the long corridors that stretches behind the nurses’ station, and she finds herself smiling down at the screen of her phone as she types out her reply to Hana’s most recent text.

They are currently in the middle of a semi-conversation that started earlier that morning when the screen of her phone lit up with a new message from Hana, first thing at the crack of dawn. Angela was leaning against the kitchen counter, with a cup of warm coffee and the morning sunlight streaming in through the windows. She was blinking and yawning and smiling without quite knowing why at something as simple as a ‘ _good morning_ ’.

It has been more than two weeks now since they’ve gone past exchanging names and contact details to instant messaging and phone calls with no one to intermediate. They communicate often – practically every day, even – despite the fact that they are both busy in equal measure. They’ve slowly learned each other’s schedules, finding ways to bend around the hectic hours and make it work, somehow.

Before Angela knew it, they fell into a comfortable routine. And truth be told – whether it’s texting back and forth on her way to work, or in-between her rounds at the hospital, during lunch breaks, or simply hearing the sleepy slur in Hana’s voice during their late-night conversations – talking to Hana has quickly become the highlight of Angela’s days.

The thought of it makes her smile, unsurprisingly so. She tries to cover it with a fake cough when she suddenly hears her name being called out.

“Doctor Ziegler.”

Angela slows her pace and looks over her shoulder to see a middle-aged man rushing to catch up to her.

 _Dr. Hamada_ ,  _neurosurgery department_ , Angela reminds herself with a discreet glance at the man’s nametag once he’s fallen into step beside her. He greets her with a curt nod, skipping the pleasantries. He says, “I was hoping you could assist me on my morning rounds. I need a pre-op consult on a patient of mine.”

“Of course.” Angela nods politely and he gestures in the direction of the Pediatrics wing.

This man has a conservative haircut and the posture of a soldier, making him appear rather imposing despite the fact that he is shorter than Angela. He strides across the length of the hallway with his hands clasped behind his back as he tells her more about his patients, seeking a second opinion on certain treatments. He speaks with the bored expertise of someone who has spent too many years doing the same thing and lost every ounce of passion for it in the process. He has the cynical look of someone who no longer sees a silver lining to their existence.

Angela can hardly blame him, if she’s being honest. It only makes her wonder. Surely this man was once an ordinary boy with big dreams and grand ideals. Just like her, he was once a tired student waiting for graduation day. And now, who’s to say, perhaps she is only a few bad days away from turning into someone like him.

Maybe, in the end, that’s all it takes: just a few bad days to tip the scales and finally lose sight of yourself.

They round a corner and Angela catches the attention of the four interns dawdling at the end of the hall. They all lift their heads in acknowledgement, straightening their white lab coats and fiddling with their new pagers. They move at a run when Dr. Hamada calls them over, shuffling behind the two doctors as they walk down the corridor, and trying their best to keep up as their curious eyes wander around.

The Department of Pediatrics is relatively quiet at this time of morning, with only a few parents loitering around making phone calls, and the muffled noise of a television coming from the private wards. The nurses here carry on with a serene purposefulness, a kind of unhurried efficiency that Angela appreciates.

Dr. Hamada moves around the wards with a practiced pace, the interns like ducklings following his every move and hanging on every word. Throughout the examinations, he gives commands rather than requests and rounds with him are for these interns something like a quest for praise. The need to impress is almost tangible.

When they go through the next door on the right, they find the patient already sitting in her wheelchair, with a nurse by her side and tending to her needs. The child looks up, shifting anxiously in her seat. Her shaved head glistens slightly underneath the harsh fluorescent lights and the stuffed animal – a chubby, white bunny, by the looks of it – quivers every so often in her tight grasp when her small hands twitch around it.

Angela pauses at the end of the bed to pick up the patient’s chart and analyzes it for a few seconds.  _Eight years old and_ _scheduled for spinal surgery._

Angela fights back the pity and allows her expression to melt into a warm smile instead as she bends down in front of the little girl’s wheelchair so that they are at eye-level. “ _Ohayou_ , Nao-chan,” Angela says; albeit, her Japanese is rather rusty in places. “How are you feeling today?”

The child only nods and averts her gaze as she strokes the ears of her stuffed animal. The movement of her hand looks too rigid to be entirely comfortable, Angela observes. Dr. Hamada takes a penlight out of the breast pocket of his navy blue scrubs and steps around Nao's wheelchair, making her wince as if bracing herself for what comes next. He tips her head up and pulls on her eyelids, one by one, checking her pupils.

“Why don’t I hold onto your little friend here until you are done?” Angela suggests when she stands up, tucking the clipboard under one arm. Nao hesitates at first but she thrusts her stuffed bunny towards Angela, and Angela takes it with a grateful smile. On a second glance, she notices it has pink triangles drawn messily on the cheeks, and she almost laughs out loud.

Angela can’t believe that for once, she is the one to ask, “Are you a D.Va fan?”

Nao looks up at her, shivering a little when Dr. Hamada slides the cold metal of the stethoscope up her back to listen to her lungs. She takes several deep, rattling breaths, then she replies with two timid words: “You too?”

Dr. Hamada’s eyebrows shot up for a fleeting moment there, as though he had no idea the child could talk.

“Am I a fan?” Angela chuckles breezily, and Nao nods, a glimmer of hopeful expectancy in her eyes. _Well._ Now, it’s not like Angela has the capacity to disappoint a child, so she smiles, nods, and says, “Something like that.”

Nao seems very pleased to hear this and she doesn’t seem to mind it when Angela drags a stool close to her wheelchair and sits down. Crossing one long leg over the other, Angela sets the stuffed bunny carefully on her lap. Then she pulls a pen out of the breast pocket of her lab coat to make a few notes in the patient’s chart while Dr. Hamada wraps a blood pressure cuff around Nao’s frail arm.

His movements all sharp and with purpose, and whenever he smiles, he does it in the same cold and distant way most professionals do. Patients can never relax around such expressions. This is a universal truth. So Angela asks Nao to tell her about those Japanese cartoons she likes to watch, giving the girl something else to focus on while Dr. Hamada continues to check her vitals.

Angela’s attention is focused on the clipboard and the results that show up on the monitor, but she makes sure to never frown or let her face look too serious. She pauses every now and then to address Nao directly, to explain the next procedure and what its purpose is. She allows the child to fall under the impression that she is the one completely in control here, as though all she has to do is whisper ‘ _stop_ ’ and they would.

Once they are done, Angela gives Nao her precious stuffed bunny back and stands up.

“What do you think?” Dr. Hamada prompts, scribbling his signature on the chart before passing it back to Angela.

He tells her that she is free to choose the direction for treatment on this one, and Angela nods as she clicks her pen shut, sliding it back into her pocket. She tucks the clipboard under one arm and holds up the girl’s X-Ray to inspect it for a moment. She understands his concern here. The chances of success are rather minimal; 50/50 at best. A period of rehabilitation would be needed afterwards, too. “I’ll do it.”

“Very well.” Dr. Hamada nods curtly. He motions for the interns to follow him out the door and then he’s gone.

After another – longer – glance at the chart in her hand, Angela is getting ready to leave too when Nao grabs ahold of her sleeve and tugs at it with a pleading look on her face. She asks, “Will you come talk to me again?”

“Of course,” Angela promises just as an idea crosses her mind. She checks her wristwatch. It’s only a little after nine so Hana might have some time to spare if she didn’t start her morning block of practice yet. “Would you give me a minute, Nao-chan?” Angela asks sweetly, and the child nods, flopping the stuffed bunny’s ears.

She texts Hana, briefly explaining the situation. It doesn’t take long to get a reply. _Of course_ , Angela thinks. Hana would do anything for a fan.

Angela can't help but smile as she kneels down next to Nao’s wheelchair.

She holds her phone out at arm’s length and the nurse hovers two feet behind them, likely unsure whether to leave the ward or not.

“Are we taking a picture?” Nao attempts to cover her buzz cut with her hands as if ashamed of it.

“No,” Angela chuckles, stroking the back of the child’s head reassuringly. “I have a little surprise for you.”

Angela watches the screen intently, waiting. She bites her lip as it suddenly occurs to her that they haven’t exactly done a video call up to this point. She tries to tamp down the strange surge of energy that goes through her body – a mixture of embarrassment and excitement that makes her slightly jittery and her hand shake a bit as she holds her phone up. A video call request from Hana finally pops up on the screen and Angela resists the ridiculous urge to reach up and fix her hair before she finally swipes to answer.

Mere seconds later, Hana’s face is right there before their eyes. She is flashing her usual winning smile and waving cheerfully at the camera as if greeting a dear friend. “ _Ohayou_ , Nao-chan!”

Angela didn’t know Hana could speak Japanese and she wonders if she looks just as awe-struck as the child next to her, who is now gaping at the small screen with fascination shimmering in her eyes. “It’s D.Va!” Nao gasps. “She is _so_ pretty!” She turns to look at Angela for confirmation. “Isn’t she pretty?”

“ _Aren’t I **so** pretty?_” Hana plays along, with an exaggerated flutter of her eyelashes and a cheeky grin.

The question catches Angela completely off balance. It puts her on the spot and, under the insistence of Hana’s gaze, she struggles to find the words to form a coherent sentence. She glances around, evasive, her free hand fiddling with the stethoscope slung around her neck. She clears her throat in an attempt to pull her thoughts together and – most probably failing – to remain composed. But luckily for her, just then, Nao intervenes. With newfound determination, the little girl declares, “When I grow up, I want to be just as pretty as _you_!”

A flash of recognition passes over Hana’s face like maybe she’s heard something similar before – a strange feeling of _déjà vu_ perhaps, of which she snaps out with a gentle shake of her head. Allowing the moment to be snuffed out as quickly as it began, Hana encourages Nao with an enthusiastic thumb’s up, then glances back at Angela once more. Amusement twinkles in her eyes and plays with the corners of her mouth.

“ _What about Angela?_ ” Hana asks, “ _Don’t you think she’s super pretty, too?_ ”

Nao giggles, shaking her head. “Her name is not Angela. It is Doctor Ziegler,” she informs Hana, pronouncing the foreign word the best she can. Her tone indicates nothing but flawless logic as she points to Angela’s name tag.

“ _Oh, my bad_ ,” Hana says solemnly, winking at Angela like she’s in on the joke. “ _But do you want to know what **I** think?”  _She motions between herself and Angela. “ _I think you’re already prettier than both of us combined_.”

Angela nods, sincerely approving. “It’s true.” She gives the child a smile and a gentle shoulder squeeze.

Nao giggles again, overtaken by a cough as she buries her little nose between the flappy ears of her stuffed animal; no doubt trying to conceal her embarrassment from having both Hana and Angela suddenly dot on her.

They talk some more and Angela tries hard not to focus too much on the sound of Hana’s laughter, or the way her eyes seem to glimmer underneath the blurry, almost chaotic neon lights of the PC Bang. She fights to concentrate on the topic at hand, but her eyes are often caught helplessly on the shape of Hana’s smile. It’s all in these small details that make Angela wish she could take a picture of Hana right now; press a pause button, take it all in. It’s a dangerous thought. Angela knows. It makes her heart beat a little too fast, a small pulse that she can feel in her throat. It makes her voice waver slightly as she speaks, and it takes a bit of effort to conceal her unease.

That aside, Nao seems to appreciate Hana and Angela's combined effort to speak Japanese even though both of them mix up a few words here and there, slipping into awkward formal speech at times and having to seek the other’s help.

Hana glances over her shoulder, then her eyes flit to the clock in the corner of her phone’s screen.

“ _Gotta go now, but we’ll talk more some other time, okay?_ _Fighting!_ ” Hana makes sure Nao understands this and isn’t upset, then she turns to look back at Angela. “ _See you later, then._ **_Doctor Ziegler_**.” Voice suddenly low and suggestive, her grin turns just a little wicked and Angela tries not to blush. She reminds herself that dozens of people call her that every day and so it really shouldn’t sound so flirtatious coming from Hana.

Especially not with a little girl sitting next to her. It’s certainly not… ideal.

Angela ends the call and bids Nao goodbye, leaving her in the care of the nurse. She exits the room and she can hardly keep herself from smiling as she makes her way down the hall and back to the lobby. She drops by the nurses’ station to grab the files she needs before turning on her heel and heading towards the Orthopedic Unit for some post-op check-ups. Angela examines her patients; her movements unhurried and gentle. She keeps her tone and expression mild and pleasant as she courts the opinions of the nurses and listens to what they have to say.

As soon as she is done with her morning rounds, she has to sit through an X-Ray meeting, tapping her pen against her clipboard.

Angela is glad that she hasn’t been assigned any interns to take care of on top of everything else.

She needs caffeine. Now.

 

12PM finally rolls around, and it’s officially her lunch break, but instead of grabbing a seat in the cafeteria, Angela finds herself armed with a warm cup of coffee and the stack of charts that were set aside for her. She stops by the nurses’ station and after she pats the pocket of her scrubs, then her lab coat, she lets out a quiet, defeated sigh. She must have left her pen in the conference room. She borrows one from the register and the woman manning the front desk looks up from the paperwork in front of her and gives Angela a polite bow.

Angela responds with an amiable nod before turning her attention back to her charts. She goes methodically through the pile, prepping for the rest of her day, scheduled down to the hour. She fills out all the necessary paperwork for all the different tests she wants done. Her handwriting is scrawled and nearly illegible in places. Angela likes to think that it doesn’t conform to the stereotype of a doctor but she is aware that it still does.

She is leaning against the counter, chewing on the end of a pen as she studies the clipboard, when her phone buzzes in the pocket of her lab coat. She bites her lip around a smile as she checks the notification on the screen. She opens the KakaoTalk app, expecting another one of those ‘ _funny memes_ ’ as Hana calls them, but instead she gets a picture of a Subway sandwich and something that looks like strawberry milkshake.

 

 **[pm12:26] D.Va** : lunch time. i’m eating right now

 

Another text comes in right away and Angela is yet again impressed by how fast Hana can type.

 

 **[pm12:26] D.Va** : you better eat something too

 **[pm12:27] Mercy:** I am eating

 **[pm12:27] D.Va** : oh yeah? Then let me see

 **[pm12:29] Mercy:** I am not eating yet*

 **[pm12:30] D.Va** : HA! I KNEW IT

 

Angela imagines the self-satisfied smirk Hana must have on her face right now and she can’t help but shake her head in quiet amusement.

The nurse glances at her from the corner of her eye and Angela dips her chin, hiding the smile twitching on her lips behind the lid of her styrofoam cup. She takes another sip only to find that there’s no coffee left.

“Shall I get you a refill, Doctor Ziegler?” The nurse offers.

“That would be lovely,” Angela tells her, “Thank you.”

 

Hana lets her know that she’ll be skipping out on her next break in favor of more practice time. She is preparing for a tournament that will take place at the end of the month. Angela recalls Hana telling her about it, some days ago. She felt as if she had a crash course on Pro-Gaming 101 and she’s still struggling a little to wrap her head around it all.

According to Hana, her contract demands she commits to a minimum of 8 hours of practice a day, six days a week. And this does not include the regular physical exercise and the time she spends on sponsorship assignments. It’s certainly a complex notion if only because Angela has never had to consider any of this before. Frankly, this isn’t a world she ever imagined herself being a part of. But she is regarding it now from a new, open-minded perspective, and for some unfathomable reason, she finds that she is actually interested in knowing more about it.

Although it isn’t necessarily the activity itself that undeniably intrigues her, of course. It’s the person behind it.

Angela admires Hana’s intensive dedication and sense of commitment. The amount of work and effort that goes into that particular kind of lifestyle is truly impressive. In some ways, it’s even reminiscent of her own, so Angela is certainly capable of understanding what it’s like to have to live up to expectations on a day-to-day basis and for free time to seem like a commodity. However, she can only imagine how amplified all that immense pressure must be when one is constantly under the scrutiny and judging, critical eye of an audience and flashing cameras.

 

“Doctor Ziegler, there is someone here looking for you,” the nurse informs her, calmly and matter-of-factly, once she gets back. She hands Angela the coffee and steps aside to reveal the so-called ‘mysterious visitor’ who turns out to be none other than Genji.

When he sees her, his face breaks into a smile, slightly shy around the edges.

“What brings you here?” Angela asks, with a slight tilt of her head and a smile of her own. She gives her cup of coffee a gentle stir before taking another sip. She even dares to jest a little, “No injuries this time, I hope?”

“No,” Genji laughs, dropping his voice to a confidential whisper, “I just thought you could use some _real food_.”

Angela takes a long sip of coffee. “That is very sweet of you, really, but you shouldn’t have…”

“It’s no trouble,” he says, shifting on his feet, with the plastic bag dangling in his hand as he jerks a thumb in the general direction from which he came, “I was already in the neighborhood for a delivery.” He fiddles with the collar of his shirt. “As you may have already heard, my brother makes the best tempura dishes around.”

“Well, I can’t argue with that,” Angela chuckles lightly. She taps a finger against one of the charts on the front desk, kindly asking the nurse to take them back to her office. She steals a glance at her wristwatch, then she looks back at Genji. “I could certainly use some fresh air.”

He nods and holds out his hand, gesturing for Angela to lead the way, and she does.

As they begin to walk, her ankle boots click rhythmically on the sleek floors and up the stairs. For a minute, that’s the only sound either of them makes, the quiet even more apparent when they exit the hospital and find themselves out on the rooftop.

Greeted by the brisk autumn breeze, Angela exhales sharply and watches her breath curl faintly in the air. She sweeps a lock of hair back from her face and tucks it behind her ear as she peers up at the sky, which is turning a deepening shade of gray. She squints against the sunlight fighting tirelessly to break through the heavy cloud cover. The days are certainly getting colder, and Angela suspects rain might be in the forecast.

They both lean on the railing, overlooking the Shibuya district, stretched out before their eyes and nuanced in shades of grey under the gloomy afternoon light. The people and the cars below move in a smooth hush, like something from a silent film.

Angela grabs a piece of tempura squid with her chopsticks and takes a small bite.

“These are delicious,” she says, savoring the burst of flavor on her tongue. “Give my compliments to the chef.”

“I will,” Genji tells her once he’s finished swallowing a mouthful of stir-fried noodles. He licks his lips and sniggers in between his next words, “I am sure he will appreciate it, though we both know he won’t admit it.” And so, he begins to tell her that Hanzo has recently started experimenting with liquid nitrogen, trying his hand at molecular gastronomy in hopes that they could add new ‘mystery dishes’ to their menu. “The competition is harsh nowadays,” Genji explains. “We need something that can make a lasting impression on our customers.”

Angela nods along in acknowledgement as she finishes drinking her coffee. Genji accidentally flicks a bamboo shoot over the railing, and they both burst into laughter. For a moment there, it felt almost like old times; a nostalgic glimpse at their days of youth long gone by in the blink of an eye.

A thought crosses Angela’s mind and she finds herself asking, “Have you heard anything from McCree?”

Genji glances over at her, his eyebrows raised. He gives a small shrug as he grabs a wet napkin to wipe at his mouth. “Last time we talked on the phone, he was in Mexico. On a _secret_ mission.” Genji grins fondly, shaking his head with a laugh. “I still do not know what to make of that.”

Angela chuckles. “Maybe it’s better we don’t know.”

Genji laughs some more, then nods. “I think it would be nice if we could have a reunion, all of us. Like old times. What do you say?”

He watches her quietly, waiting for a clear answer, but Angela only nods and murmurs in agreement. It would be a lie to say she has never considered the idea. But she can hardly ignore the disjointed sensation that they are all now different pieces of different puzzles.

Angela takes a small bite, careful not to get a single grease stain on her clothes. She chews slowly, her eyes fixed on the traffic down below. She spots a group of high school students, clad in their uniforms, cutting across a sidewalk. The sound of their laughter is muted by the distance, their expressions bright and carefree. It’s almost odd to think now that _she_  was once that age, too.

Genji seems to be on the verge of saying something else, his mouth beginning to form aborted words. He gives in to a minute of silence with a weary sigh. He leans onto his elbows, his back against the railing. The eerily calm sound of the wind caresses their ears, ruffles their hair, as Angela keeps her eyes fixed on the distant scenery ahead. 

“Sometimes, I wish we could all go back. Start over.” He’s looking down now, at the scars on his hands, somewhat pensive and wistful. When Angela doesn’t say anything right away, Genji shakes his head as if to clear the thought. Then he adds, “Not to do anything differently, of course, but… perhaps to try to make it last longer.” He pauses, waits, and Angela can feel his gaze on her as he asks the inevitable, “Don’t you?”

Her answer goes unspoken once again, and when the silence comes, it stays for a while.

With that tinge of nostalgia in every breeze, it swiftly becomes the kind of silence that invites old memories.

Angela gazes up at the sky, breathes in the cloudy air, and thinks about the sort of things she has no control over.

She thinks about how rapidly time slips away, the years light as feathers. In hindsight, everything seems to have passed so fleetingly. She is always being swept forward into new scenery, and nothing ever stays exactly the same. In the end, that’s the inevitable course of life.

They eat the rest of their food in silence, with nothing but the distant sounds of afternoon traffic to keep them company. Above them a bird cries out and Angela watches as it makes lazy circles in the crowded sky. She closes her eyes and lets the sounds of the city filter in.

She wonders if she should let Hana know that she’s eating now.

It seems a bit silly, come to think of it, but her hand is already patting the pocket of her lab coat for her phone.

She sends Hana a quick text for her to see whenever she’ll have the chance to check the app again.

 

“I have to say, you do seem to be in a rather good mood these days.”

Genji’s voice breaks through the surface of her thoughts, pulling her attention back to him. Angela’s head tilts up in surprise just as she shoves the phone back into her pocket. A little embarrassed at being caught in the act, she twirls her pair of chopsticks around her fingers. “Am I?”

His expression is a jumble of amusement and confusion. “I suppose…” He gives a little shrug, then a laugh as he lets his gaze drop to the empty take-out carton in his hands. “There is something different about you lately, I have noticed. You seem more… relaxed.” Something unreadable passes over his face before he runs a hand through his hair and turns to look at her with a small smile. “It is not a bad thing.”

Angela hums distractedly as she pushes the last piece of shrimp tempura around the plastic bowl with her chopsticks. She takes a bite and chews slowly, pondering over his remark. She thinks of Hana and how, in spite of all their differences, they clicked. And that’s something Angela hasn’t done with anybody in quite some time.

She has a handful of people she genuinely likes to interact with and actively seek out to spend time with, but for the better part of her adult life, it has begun to feel as though her job is all she focuses on. There’s barely any room left for socializing. People, over the years, dropped off the radar for the usual myriad of reasons. Not to mention that she has also fallen out of the whole dating loop as a result. It’s the nature of her job, Angela tells herself. With the world moving so fast around her, there is rarely time to stop and look below the surface.

She has almost forgotten what it’s like to simply enjoy getting to know a person from scratch. It’s thrilling to have Hana’s attention focused on her, asking her questions about the things she likes to do, her favorite movies or books, her beverage preferences; listening with interest to anything Angela has to say.

They learn more about each other in small snippets and snatches of conversation at a time, and Angela wants to know even the mundane details of Hana’s life, just as she willingly shares the dull, day-to-day aspects of her own. Angela finds herself sharing parts of herself that have been gathering dust over the years, and in turn, she is surprised by how much she doesn’t mind hearing about whatever interests Hana.

Now, the fact that she can’t help being drawn to this girl is admittedly a bit alarming, but Angela chalks it up to more of a quiet affinity than anything else. Because for all their striking differences, she is starting to see that they are similar, too, in some rather fundamental ways. They are both borderline workaholics, with busy schedules to keep. Both self-sufficient, if a little lonely; independent, if a little lost.

Maybe they both needed something like this: a small change of pace, a chance to unwind.

Something as simple as a breath of fresh air in this oasis of an atypical yet genuine connection.

At that thought, Angela allows herself a small, cautious smile. Then she catches Genji’s curious eye.

He looks like he is trying to figure something out and Angela lifts a questioning brow. He heaves a quiet sigh, a small frown creasing his forehead as he turns his gaze away. “You don’t have to walk on eggshells around me, Angela,” he says and his voice is quiet, like he’s hesitant. It’s another minute of silence before he meets Angela’s eyes again and adds, “If you’ve met someone… you can tell me.”

Angela blinks, mildly surprised and taken aback by the insinuation.

She shakes her head. “No, it isn’t like that,” she says, and she feels like it should be the truth, but it feels heavy on her tongue, like something weighing her down; it’s bitter, like the beginning of a lie. So Angela bites those words back, unsure how else to phrase it. She falters, glancing down to where her fingers are still toying with the pair of chopsticks, twirling them around and around between her fingers.

She can feel Genji watching her intently, scouting for any physical clues she might give away. She doesn’t even know why she feels the need to take a defensive stance. Technically, she did meet someone. And that’s it. There is nothing complicated about it.

“It’s just—” Angela starts but her pager bleeps in her pocket before she can finish that sentence.

 _Saved by the bell_ , as they say…

 

“I am needed in the ER.” Her tone comes off as far more relieved than apologetic and she notices the way Genji’s mouth draws into a tight line before he gives a nod and half a smile. It looks painful and forced.

“I understand,” he says, simply. “Go. I will clean around here.”

“Thank you,” Angela tells him, and she means it. “For everything.”

She has a hand on the door when she turns around once more. Her gaze flickers back to him as he stands there, his eyes distant and blank, wiping his hands on a napkin. She wants to tell him ‘ _you are a good friend_ ’ and she knows he’ll say ‘ _I try to be_ ’. Because he does.

She feels a pang of sympathy for him then. It’s not as though she is blind. She knows how he feels about her. Clearly he must be aware of it, too; that she knows. From a distance, it didn’t seem to put a strain on their friendship, so Angela went along with it in a somewhat detached way. Part of her must have foolishly hoped his feelings would eventually run their course, but now she wonders if that’s a cruel pretense to keep.

Maybe he expects her to bring it up one day, but now anything she would have to say would amount to rubbing salt on a wound.

So Angela says nothing, already turned on her heel and sprinting down the stairs.

 

The second she bursts through the double doors of the ER, Angela becomes one with the frenzied atmosphere inside. She hurriedly takes her lab coat off and sweeps her hair under a scrub cap, not a strand out of place. She ties the drawstrings at the back of her head, grabs a clean pair of rubber gloves and snaps them on.

In surgery, she can compartmentalize. She can stow away any useless thoughts for another time as she stands there for hours, holding things open and blinking only rarely, separating her hands from the rest of herself and fixing the insides of people as if they are machines. Angela thinks, in a figurative sense of the word, they are.

 

Two consecutive surgeries and five hours later find her in the bathroom, staring at her reflection in the mirror. Sweat glistens at her temples and at the nape of her neck, and she wipes at her forehead with the back of her hand, pushing her hair aside. She turns on the tap, very careful about getting all of the remaining blood off; swirled down the drain of the sink or stuck to gloves at the bottom of a trash bin.

Angela rolls her shoulders and stretches her back, feeling the ache of exhaustion in her spine and a weariness that makes her feel sleepy in spite of all the caffeine. She lets the stream of water rush over her fingers before splashing some onto her face—freezing cold, like ice cubes or winter air. It’s the kind of cold that wakes her up.

With the smell of blood and sterilizer still fresh in her nostrils, she draws in a deep breath as soon as she steps out into the airy corridor.

She still has a few rounds to make before her shift ends. And tiredness is never an excuse.

 

Outside, the clouds have partially dispersed and everything looks golden in the late evening light. A flock of birds rest on an electric wire, then fly on. For a long while, the sun seems to sit still there, tangled in the branches of a tree, throbbing a gentle hue of orange. Angela stares at it through the windows of the hallway. Stifling a yawn, she feels a smile tug at her lips when her phone rings with a notification.

 _Hana must be done with practice,_ Angela muses, already opening the app.

 

 **[pm8:03] D.Va** : hello doctor?

 **[pm8:03] D.Va** : I think they r dead

 

A laugh bubbles up in Angela’s throat before she even clicks on the attached picture to stare at it full-screen.

Then there’s Hana, winking at the camera and throwing up a peace sign. The boys in the background are all hunched over their keyboards and one of them has even dropped on the floor. Hana wasn’t joking. They do look as though the very essence of life has been sucked out of them.

It makes Angela chuckle, shaking her head in amusement, almost as though she and Hana have known each other for ages, and this is something Angela already knows is so typical of Hana to do. She doesn’t think twice before she saves the picture and goes back to the chat.

She leans against the windowsill and gnaws on her bottom lip for a moment, thinking of what to say back.

An idea occurs to her.

Hana always sends her pictures—always casual and candid, just her making an adorable face or holding up a random item for scale, or showing Angela what she’s eating or a gift she received from a fan. Angela, on the other hand, is worse at reciprocating, only because she rarely thinks of taking pictures of herself for no good reason. It’s not that she is against the idea of a ‘selfie’. It’s simply that she is not very used to doing it.

_Maybe she could ask someone to take a picture of her?_

_Yes, what a brilliant idea._ Angela rolls her eyes at herself.

After a minute of deliberation, she glances around to make sure she is alone.

Frankly, it’s a little embarrassing to be doing this in a hospital of all places. Yet she can’t help the slight thrill that runs through her as she holds her phone up at arm’s length. Trying to be as discreet as possible, she considers quickly taking the picture and sending it right away but when she switches to the camera app and sees her own face and the rather disheveled state her hair is in after untying her ponytail—she feels a momentary surge of panic. She hurriedly combs fingers through her hair, trying to smooth it down into some semblance of normalcy.

Angela doesn’t allow herself any further second-guessing. She steels herself, takes the picture and sends it.

 

When a reply doesn’t come straight back, Angela chews the inside of her cheek, suddenly feeling self-conscious. _Maybe she is trying too hard?_  

She realizes just now that she didn’t reply right away either, and she stares at the screen with a dawning sense of embarrassment.

Angela squeezes her phone as if the physical restriction would cause the picture she has sent to disappear into oblivion.

When Hana's reply  _finally_ comes through, the relief is immediate.

 

 **[pm8:13] D.Va** : sorry! i had to get away from those plebs

 **[pm8:13] D.Va** : no way i’m letting them sneak a peek

 

 **[pm8:13] D.Va** : pretty sure you just respawned them with all that angelic glory

 **[pm8:14] D.Va** : lol I’m kidding

 

Angela stifles a giggle as she tries to keep up with the string of messages that Hana sends her way. This girl uses acronyms and slang words like a second language, one that Angela is slowly starting to become fluent in too. She sometimes has to look up and verify Hana’s references, but they are slowly getting easier to decipher.

 

 **[pm8:14] D.Va** : you do look amazing though

 

Angela _knows_ it’s not true. After all, how good can one possibly look after such a long day at the hospital?

Still, having Hana compliment her so casually is reassuring. It soothes Angela’s nerves and fills her with jittery joy.

**[pm8:15] Mercy:** Thank you

 **[pm8:15] Mercy:** You look amazing as well

 

 **[pm8:15] D.Va** : i bet we’d look amazing together too!

 **[pm8:16] D.Va** : like in combo pictures

 **[pm8:16] D.Va** : that’s totally what i meant

 **[pm8:16] D.Va** : hold on, i’ll show you

 

There is a short pause before the next message comes in. Angela clicks on the [link](http://www.boredpanda.com/long-distance-relationship-korean-couple-photo-collage-half-shiniart) Hana included and it takes her to an Instagram page which apparently belongs to a young couple of artists who are in a long-distance relationship— _wait, does this mean… is Hana trying to imply something here?_ No. Angela is reading too much into it. Surely, it’s only a coincidence. She quickly shakes the thought off as she keeps scrolling down that webpage. There are several pairs of photos taken from different sides of the world and combined in a creative manner.

 

 **[pm8:18] D.Va** : we should try that sometime, what do you say?

 

It’s an interesting idea, though Angela can’t for the life of her figure out the nature of Hana’s intentions. She wants to.

She wants to know more. She wants to keep pulling at the thread of who Hana is, to slowly unravel her.

 

 **[pm8:19] Mercy:** I would like that.


	7. When the Stars Align

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick shout-out to my friend Diana for helping me get out of my writing funk. Here is an invite link to her HanaMercy discord chat for those of you who want to join: https://discord.gg/J5KwhwJ -- if this link doesn't work you should [head over to her Tumblr and ask for a new one](https://hanamercy.tumblr.com). Speaking of Tumblr, [I finally gave in and made one too](https://fultimeinternet.tumblr.com) and I'll keep an eye on it so feel free to drop by with questions or just to see if I'm still alive, kek. That being said, I want to thank everyone who stuck around and continued to show their support for this fic throughout this long, long hiatus! Hopefully the next update won't take as long but it goes without saying that like any other fic writer, comments and kudos always give me a much needed motivation boost.

Hana feels light on her feet as she hurries down the street. Her breath curls in the late evening air, her bangs swept back by the cool breeze coming in from the shoreline that’s not too far from here. She can smell the clean, salty tang of the sea and it makes her smile. She spent the weekend in Seoul where the most recent Starcraft tournament was held—only two days yet more than enough for her to miss her hometown.

When she rounds a corner, she spots Lena a little farther ahead, at the intersection that’s supposed to be their meeting point. Dressed in tight jeans and a yellow varsity jacket, Lena is a stark contrast to all the noisy motion around her, what with the way she stands so still amid a moving crowd and how intensely she keeps staring down at her phone. She's distracted enough that she doesn’t even notice Hana approaching her.

“Hey! Earth to Oxton. You okay there?” Hana asks when she's close enough to lay a hand on Lena's shoulder.

It's only then that Lena snaps out of her daze, eyes wide with surprise. “Oh! Here you are, love!" She laughs on a relieved exhale and Hana watches her words ripple through the crispy air, “‘About time you got here! I’ve been freezing my arse off, you know?”

“Yeah, no shit,” Hana remarks, “It’s like, below zero degrees C.”  It’s the beginning of October and the autumn days clearly wane toward the inevitable colder weather ahead. People pull up their collars against the sharp wind, they wrap their coats a little tighter around themselves; each nightfall comes sooner that the one before. Hana shoves her hands deeper into her pockets as if to emphasize her point then motions for them to get going in the direction of the restaurant. Just as dusk finally gives way to dark, the streetlamps above them snap on, casting long shadows across the sidewalk. “So. Anyway,” Hana says as they start walking. “What’s up with you? You totally zoned out back there.”

“Me?” Lena blinks, almost as though she didn't expect Hana to have noticed that at all. “Uh, yeah—yeah, I’m good…” She tries to sound convincing, but her voice falters as she fidgets with her phone before sliding it into her back pocket. A small, defeated sigh escapes her lips. “I was on Face-Time earlier, you see. My friend Winston—I’ve mentioned him before, haven’t I?” Hana gives a nod then Lena carries on, “Right. Well, he’s looking to book us tickets to ‘The Swan Lake’ which I’ve been told it’ll get performed by The Paris Opera Ballet around the holidays, so... he wanted to know if I’m going back home—back to London—for Christmas…”

She trails off and Hana gets the vague impression that Lena may have lost her train of thoughts.

Well, it’s either **that**  or she is looking for an escape route? Hard to tell, really. Under different circumstances, Hana wouldn't push the topic forward but it didn't escape her attention that this is the first time she's heard Lena mention something like this: a hint to how long she’s planning on sticking around for. Lena always seems a little unsure of it herself, so Hana never really thought of asking.

But, truth be told, she’s genuinely curious to hear the answer. “Well? Are you going or not?”

Lena feigns a gasp, resting a hand over her heart as if she’s deeply wounded. “Tryna get rid of me already, love?”

Hana rolls her eyes. “C’mon.” She jostles the other girl playfully as they keep walking. “Just answer the question.”

Lena gives a little shrug, staring right ahead. “I don’t know,” she admits. “I’m not sure if… I'm not sure if I'm ready to go back just yet.”

This might be the most serious Hana has ever seen Lena be, so she can hardly help the uneasy laugh that accompanies her words when she asks, “Why? You don’t like ballet or something?"

Lena shakes her head. “No, it’s not that I don’t like  _ballet_. It’s because of—” She cuts herself off from finishing that sentence so fast that Hana is willing to bet Lena got a mental whiplash. To prevent any further slips of the tongue, Lena clears her throat just as they come to a halt at a red light. “Well, none of that matters now, really. Let’s just say that I like it here,” she tells Hana, as they wait to cross the street. “Here, I’m basically no one. And that’s perfectly fine with me.”

Hana blinks, frowns. She opens her mouth, then closes it again, not sure what to say to that.

It’s really not something she expected to hear, so she tries to let those words sink in. She tries to understand.

And as she watches Lena’s profile underneath the streetlights, how the white glow of car headlights steal over her face—her eyes are so distant and unfocused, blurred with a hint of reckless confusion that somehow makes her seem more lost than sad. And it finally strikes Hana then.

It makes sense.

Lena is far from home, in another country—in a stranger’s land. She is a foreigner surrounded by people who don’t know her, who speak a language she doesn’t understand. She is alone in more than one sense of the word but there are also no expectations to live up to, and Hana starts to wonder if maybe this is exactly what Lena has been seeking here in the first place: a clean slate.

Hana can definitely understand the allure of it. There’s something intoxicating—addicting even—in the anonymity of it all.

_But why would Lena need something like that?_

Before Hana could open her mouth to ask, to sate her curiosity, the light turns green and Lena beats her to the punch.

With an eager bounce in her steps, she throws an arm around Hana’s shoulders and steers them both ahead.

“That was a bit of a downer, wasn't it? But tonight's  _your_  night, champ! We're here to celebrate your victory after all, aren't we?”

On their way to the entrance of the restaurant, Lena adopts her usual goofy grin which makes it hard for Hana to press on the subject any further so she decides to let it slide for now. “Whatever,” Hana huffs. “We both know you’re just here for the free food.”

Lena doesn't deny it, she plays along with a wink and finger-guns making Hana scoff as they push the door open with a tiny jingle of a bell.

Inside, the restaurant is adorned with cozy lights and white wisps of steam that rise from the electric grills that sit on top of the tables, wafting the aroma of barbecued meat through the air. There’s idle chatter and laughter pleasantly mixed with the [mellow sounds of Korean R&B](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7IBav-928Ic&t=1s).

It’s a Monday night, which means the place isn’t  _too_  crowded, filled mostly by scattered groups of students who are nestled around tables they’ve pushed together. Hana and Lena pick one by the windows and sit across from each other.

Hana is in the middle of shrugging off her jacket when she feels her phone buzz in her pocket and she can’t get it out fast enough.

But much to her disappointment, it turns out to be only a boring mail notification. Spam of all things.  _Ugh_. Delete.

As she scrolls through unread messages to make sure she didn’t miss anything, she reminds herself to call Lucio first thing in the morning. They need to go over his tour dates and see if their schedules line up so they can hopefully meet up at the convention in L.A. next month. 

 _Still no new message from Angela, though…_  Hana holds in a sigh as she sets her phone on the table.

Lena grins, rubbing her hands excitedly, her eyes wander around, gaping at the décor.

Hana looks over the menu while the waitress stands patiently next to them, pen poised.

As promised, it’s Hana’s treat. Despite the fact that they are here to celebrate her big win at the tournament in Seoul, she is the one who suggested this outing, to show Lena ‘the miracles of Korean BBQ’, so she orders for them both: marinated pork belly, marinated beef short ribs, and a large variety of side dishes. The waitress jots down their order, beaming with the enthusiasm of someone most likely new to the job. She asks if she could get them any drinks; Hana gets some sparkling water for herself, a bottle of  _Soju_ , and some beer for Lena.

 

“Go on then,” Lena prompts with a smile. “Tell me all about what you’ve been up to this weekend,”

Her curious eyes flit between Hana and the menu in her hands as she continues to flip through the pages.

Hana starts catching her up with the events of the second Super Tournament and her short trip to Seoul, trying to keep the details as brief and simple as possible. Not only because she is aware that Lena isn’t very familiar with anything that has to do with pro-gaming, but also because Hana’s attention isn’t completely undivided as she speaks. There’s a skittish streak of impatience that keeps her leg bobbing beneath the table and she can’t help but sneak a glance at her phone every other minute, hoping the screen will light up with a new message.

Ridiculous or not, Angela has been on Hana’s mind a lot lately. More often than not, Hana has to literally stop herself from texting Angela whenever something simply crosses her mind. Sometimes she has to hold back so as not to ask Angela everything she can think of—her likes and dislikes, favorite color, favorite kind of music, favorite movie, favorite foods and desserts. Hana tries not to overwhelm Angela with too many questions at once because she doesn’t want to come off as too clingy. But, one way or another, she is determined to know it all; not just the big and important things, but the smaller ones too. She wants to  _know_  everything there is to know about Angela.

Lena gets a bit too distracted by the menu—studying it with a frown so deep it makes it seem like she is struggling to decipher ancient runes—so Hana decides to take advantage of that in the meantime. She slides low in her seat and taps the screen of her phone awake. Biting her lip around a smile, she scrolls through the most recent part of her conversation with Angela. Her last text was sent a few hours ago and she hasn’t heard from Angela since.  _Which is totally normal_ , Hana reassures herself. It must be one of those  _very_  busy days at the hospital.

Hana can only imagine—she pictures the scene like in a movie or drama series: ambulances arriving with their sirens blaring, paramedics wheeling in patients on trollies, doctors moving around in a hurry. Truth be told, after having heard some of the stories from Angela’s shifts, Hana has no idea how the doctor manages it. But it’s definitely gratifying to have someone like Angela—someone who saves lives for a living—be so genuinely interested in hearing about the things Hana does, too; the things she’s passionate about. Angela doesn’t belittle her. She doesn’t look down on Hana’s job or her accomplishments. Instead, Angela listens so intently and often speaks to Hana with such unmistakable pride in her voice, such open admiration and fascination that it somehow makes Hana feel more validated than she’s ever felt before.

She smiles now as she recalls their phone conversation from the night before. After she arrived home and as soon as she crawled under the warmth of her covers, Hana wanted nothing more than to tell Angela all about her trip. It’s how they ended up watching the full recording of the competition together and it didn’t even matter how exhausted she felt because she was just so content with having Angela on the line with her.

She’s not even sure when texting Angela mere seconds after waking up became a habit too, but it did. They often talk on the phone late at night, so it only feels natural to text her once she’s woken up too. It’s like brushing teeth in the morning at this point—it’s an absolute  _must_  and a force of habit that comes easy, natural. They spend their days trading lazy texts back and forth in between the busy hours of their schedules.

Lately, Angela seems much more at ease about sending selfies every once in a while, too. It’s kind of obvious that she steps out of her comfort zone to do it, but she still does it for Hana and that only makes Hana treasure the pictures she gets even more. She zooms in on a recent one Angela sent her and smiles affectionately at the sight of it. For a moment, Hana watches the way the afternoon sunlight pours in through the windows of the hospital and softens the edges of Angela’s face, the way it makes her blonde hair glisten. Hana is used to picture the amused curl of Angela’s lips whenever she gets to hear her voice, but to actually  _see_  it, well, it’s on a whole new level.

Hana can’t stop grinning down at her screen as she keeps scrolling through messages.

She tries not to read too much into this strange friendship that sparked between the two of them, but there’s this tug at her heart—something that goes beyond mere fondness, whenever she thinks of Angela. Hana can feel it.

 

Just how she can definitely feel Lena’s pointed gaze from across the table now.

Hana lowers her phone, dropping it guiltily back on the table.

On a quick second thought, she flips it face down to reduce the temptation of sneaking another peek, then she shifts her weight in her seat.

She is well aware that she’s been kind of a jerk checking her phone obsessively and ignoring her friend in the process. It’s impolite and bad manners, she knows, but Lena doesn’t look mad about it, just mildly amused and a little intrigued. That’s always an alarming combination when it comes to Lena because it usually means that she won’t let it go until she finds out what she wants to know.

“So,” Lena starts, right on cue. “Are you gonna tell me? Who’s this  _mysterious_ person you’ve been texting so religiously?”

Hana tenses up defensively.  ** _Aish_** _._   _Is she really that obvious?_ It’s not even like there’s anything to get all embarrassed about but something about Angela feels  _private._ And Hana sure as hell doesn’t want to tell Lena anything about it right  _now_.

Luckily, she smells the opportunity for a diversion when she spots the server heading towards their table with the food.

Hana clears her throat, aiming for a nonchalant air as she leans forward to get the electric grill on the table started.

“What makes you think I’m texting someone? Maybe I was just checking my Twitter feed.”

While the server sets the plates on their table, Hana picks up her metal chopsticks and preoccupies herself with setting thin strips of pork belly onto the grill. She’s hoping this might distract Lena enough for her to not want to tackle the subject any further.

But that’s just wishful thinking.  _Of course_. Reality comes to bite her in the ass.

“C’mon,” Lena drawls, munching on a pickle and barely able to contain her grin, “I can tell the difference. I’m British, not  _blind_.”

Hana scoffs. “What does that even mean?” She folds her arms across her chest as she sinks back into her seat.

Lena gives a little shrug after she takes a healthy swig from her pint of beer. “It  _means_  I’ve noticed you’re practically glued to your phone nowadays,” she explains, licking the foam from her upper lip. “Well, more than usual, is what I mean.”

She cocks her head to the side, one teasing eyebrow arched in amusement, and Hana rolls her eyes.

“Whatever. It’s not like that—”

 _She’s **old**_ , Hana wanted to add but bit her lip instead; thought better of it.

Because, really, first of all, Angela isn’t  _old._  She’s just…  _older_. Which is not a bad thing, but she’s way older than Hana, almost twice her age, so, yeah, no way. And secondly, even if the age difference weren’t so big, Angela is still a woman herself which only brings about more issues so really, there are just too many things standing in the way— _and why the hell is she even trying so hard to justify this to herself?!_

“It’s not like that,” Hana repeats, decisively, yet unsure of whom exactly she’s trying to convince this time.

Those words seem so wrong in her mouth that it makes her frown for a moment but she shakes it off as she leans forward to flip the meat on the grill. She hopes the heat she feels in her cheeks is only in her imagination and she's not  _actually_  blushing like an idiot right now.

“Sure,” Lena says in that way people get when they don’t actually believe you but are willing to humor you.

Hana shoots her a death glare and squares her shoulders but she can’t retort because her phone starts vibrating on the table and her heart leaps into her throat. She scrambles for it so fast she nearly drops it. She hears Lena giggle but she can’t be bothered with it.

When she sees the notification on screen, all she can think is:  _finally_.

She slowly counts to five so it won’t seem like she was waiting too eagerly,  _then_ she reads the message.

Angela is letting her know that she’s done with her shift at the hospital and complaining about not having eaten anything since breakfast, with a cute angry cat sticker attached to her words that almost makes Hana giggle out loud.

She can picture the doctor in her mind right now—just a silhouette of her navy blue scrubs, tired blue eyes and a messy ponytail against harsh fluorescent lighting—and once again Hana feels this incredible pull in her chest.

 

 **[pm7:45] Mercy:**  How about you? Did you have dinner yet?

 **[pm7:45] D.Va:**  i’m eating rn! delicious KBBQ

 **[pm7:45] D.Va:**  you should definitely go eat something too

 **[pm7:46] Mercy:** I will, don’t worry. I’ll stop by a restaurant at the hotel.

 **[pm7:46] Mercy:** Come to think of it…

 **[pm7:46] Mercy:**  How is Korean barbecue any different from regular barbecue?

 **[pm7:47] D.Va:**  KBBQ is just way better than regular BBQ idk

 **[pm7:47] D.Va:**  guess I’ll have you try some one day so you can see for yourself ;)

 

Hana sends it without thinking twice about the implication. It isn’t until she sees her words all typed out on the screen, and reads them again, that she realizes they ended up carrying more weight than she’d meant them to. Jokingly or not, they sound like a promise, acknowledging something neither of them dared to bring up until now. They’ve danced around the subject of a future encounter—the prospect of them ever meeting again, at some unspecified point later on—but they never really talked about it like it’s something that  _could_ happen.

Hana reaches for her glass of sparkling water and takes a few nervous sips.

She’s tempted to move her phone out of sight, to not watch how quick or how slow Angela replies to  _that_ , but then a new message pops up.

 

 **[pm7:48] Mercy:**  I suppose I’ll have to take you up on that offer :)

 

Hana slumps back into her seat, trying to stifle a laughter laced with relief.

 _R_ _eally_ , who even uses smiley faces unironically nowadays? Angela. That’s who.

And as she imagines how the doctor might look right now—her blonde head bent over the phone, smiling as she types those words—Hana finds herself smiling, too, against her will, against the hammering of her heart in her chest. She allows herself to contemplate some possibilities with a single, hopeful word:  _maybe_.

 

“—even listening to me?”

Hana lowers her phone, fumbling to switch it off. She blinks up at Lena who is watching her expectantly from across the table.

“Yeah, yeah,” Hana tells her, waving a dismissive hand, “You were saying something about a shower.”

“A  ** _meteor_** shower!” Lena mimics an explosion with her hands, like her mind’s been blown away.

“Right.” Hana scowls at the grill because it’s hard to scowl in the face of Lena’s bright enthusiasm for too long.

She takes her chopsticks and moves the cooked meat on two plates, one of which she passes to Lena, who immediately ventures to take a bite.

“I hear there’s one happening next summer,” Lena mumbles around a mouthful of beef meat. Her cheeks are puffed out, a bit of  _kimchi_ paste smeared over her bottom lip. Hana tries to show her how to eat in  _ssam_   _style_  but Lena isn’t exactly paying attention to her instructions. “You think we can see it from somewhere around here?”

Hana shrugs. “Pretty sure you can see it from anywhere as long as the sky’s clear.”

“You think so?” Lena’s brows immediately shoot up in wonder. Like this, the yellow light bulbs in the restaurant bathe her in amber, making the green hues in her eyes more pronounced, somehow, her eager gaze ever harder to disappoint. So Hana gives her a nod and Lena hums, pensively, as she leans back in her seat. She seems to seriously think about it for a moment before slowly nodding back in agreement. “That’s kind of amazing, isn’t it?” Lena sighs dreamily, making lazy circles on the table with her finger. “The meteor shower, I mean.”

“What, a bunch of shooting stars?”

Lena snickers. “Not just that, but more like the whole idea of it, you know? To think that you can see the exact same thing as anyone else from  _anywhere_  else in the world at the exact same time? It  _is_ sort of amazing.”

“I guess…” Hana gives a little shrug as she takes another sip of her sparkling water, trying to look disinterested.

Lena huffs out a laugh. “And here I thought you’d be pouncing on the opportunity to make fun of me for being too  _cheesy_  and what not.”

She makes exaggerated quotation marks in the air with her fingers around the word ‘cheesy’ which earns her an eye roll from Hana.

Though Lena is right. On any other occasion, Hana  _would_  have taken a jab at her. But right now, well, she is too preoccupied with other thoughts. Though of course Hana won’t tell Lena that her mind drifted instinctively to a certain someone. Of course she won't admit it out loud but there’s this theory, right? This theory about the stars playing with the odds, about everything in the sky aligning just right and making the impossible happen, and maybe—well,  _just_ maybe—it’s not such a totally crazy thing to believe in after all…

 

“Aw, don’t tell me you’re secretly a romantic at heart?” Lena asks, cheek resting in hand, smile sweet and teasing.

Hana snorts a laugh, quickly shaking her head; a feeble attempt to illustrate just how  _far_  from the truth that is.

“Yeah, right,” she says, “as if I have time for stuff like that.”

“That’s just ‘cause you haven’t met that special  _someone_  yet. Someone who you’ll want to  _make_ the time for.” Lena steals a glance at Hana’s phone, grinning and waggling her eyebrows. “Or maybe…”

Hana manages to swallow her mouthful without choking before replying. “I told you, it’s  **not**  like that.” The heat in her cheeks is hard to ignore when, hell, even the tips of her ears feel dangerously hot as Lena stares determinedly at her with eager eyes. Hana throws a crumpled napkin at her. “Cut it out already.” But Lena doesn’t, and Hana scowls, resisting the urge to stomp on her foot under the table because it probably wouldn’t accomplish much in the long run except draw even more unwanted attention to their table. She lets out an irritated sigh, her eyes narrowing into a glare as she points the end of her chopsticks at Lena, accusingly. She asks, “What about you then?”

Lena’s brows shot up in surprise, her own chopsticks left hanging a few inches from her mouth. She blinks, visibly caught off-guard and clearly not used to being the one put on the spot for a change. She chews slowly around her words, “What about me?”

Hana shrugs. “Oh, I don't know. Sounds to me like you're talking from personal experience here, so. Do  _you_ have someone like that?”

“Me?” Lena repeats, keeping her tone joking and light, but Hana can sense the unease when she replies with, “No. Not anymore.” A deep crease appears between her brows as she looks out the window. She watches the traffic and the silhouettes of the people passing by underneath the street lights. “There was someone once though,” she finally admits and it sounds more like a sigh than an actual sentence when she says, “Someone I used to know.” There’s an undercurrent of sadness, lingering—there’s emotional baggage beneath the surface of her words. Hana can see it in the way Lena’s shoulders slump the slightest bit, in how her fingers tighten around her empty mug. She can hear it in the way Lena’s voice comes out even stiffer the next time she speaks. “But I guess life is just strange that way, isn’t it?" She shakes her head with a weak laugh. "And people change, don't they...”

 

Once again, Hana has no idea how to respond to that.

She falls back against her seat and they are both silent for a minute, then two.

 

It seems to her as though Lena is only willing to offer bits and pieces of scattered half-truths making it impossible for Hana to see the full picture. But if there’s one thing she does understand is that whoever thatsomeone Lena used to know is… well, they must have really done a number on her because Hana has seen a lot of expressions on Lena’s face, but never a smile quite like the one she has now: vulnerable and melancholic.

Hana continues to watch the side of Lena’s face for another moment before looking away, too, out the window.

 

It’s quiet for a while.

People are talking and laughing at every table, utensils clattering, glasses tinkling. The meat sizzles on the grill.

 

Hana thinks this might be the longest she’s ever heard Lena go quiet. After all, if there’s one thing Lena can do, it’s _talk_. She’s got a knack for keeping up a steady chatter, and she’s never met an awkward silence she couldn’t plow through with idle musings. Whenever they’re together, it’s never mattered whether or not Hana keeps up her end of the conversation. A lot of the time, it doesn’t even matter if she’s listening. Lena has a habit of answering her own questions, a sort of absentminded call-and-response that requires nobody else on the other end.

Hana is hesitant to poke Lena too hard, wary of setting off an emotional landmine. She realizes that she really is out of bounds here and she isn’t sure exactly what this moment calls for, but before she can find any words, Lena picks up her chopsticks and leans forward in her seat.

“Are these done yet?” She says in a little bit of a rush, as if refusing to let Hana tackle the topic any longer. Her voice is edged in a desperation Hana hasn’t ever heard out of her and it’s disconcerting, but Hana knows what it’s like to not want to talk about something, so she goes along with it. She nods, glancing down at the table. Neither of them have flipped the slices of meat on the grill and they are starting to get burnt.

Hana takes the metal chopsticks and moves them to the edge of the grill, to a spot that’s less hot.

 

Then they eat in silence as the clock marches ahead.

 

Hana reaches for her glass of sparkling water, though she doesn’t take a sip. She spins it around in slippery circles on the table, then she drinks it all in one gulp and raises her hand to summon the waiter. “I’m ordering another round of drinks,” she blurts out after the silence has lasted long enough to feel a bit awkward; the atmosphere a little too thick, a little too heavy.

“Not a bad idea.” Lena pushes back her chair and gets up to her feet. “I gotta go to the loo though. Be right back, yeah?” 

She leaves with a grin on her face, but Hana sees right through it.

 _A smile really is the simplest of masks_ , she thinks. It’s the easiest strategy: hiding things in plain sight.

It's fine. Everyone’s got secrets. Things that are best left unseen, best left unspoken. Thoughts that belong to you and you only.

So Hana doesn’t push, doesn’t pry. She doesn’t cross the line.

She rests her chin on her hand, waiting quietly. Her eyes are drawn to the outside world; it’s all dark save for the pools of light from the yellowed street lamps, and the headlights of the cars that roar past. Hana watches the people passing by, the faint sounds of late-night traffic making their way through the closed window. She stifles a yawn when her phone vibrates on the table.

 

 **[pm8:31] Mercy:**  Have you ever been to Kozue?

 **[pm8:32] D.Va:**  Is that the one with all the Japanese food?

 **[pm8:32] Mercy:**  Yes

 **[pm8:32] D.Va:**  don’t think so. why?

 **[pm8:32] D.Va:**  you should’ve gone to New York Grill instead

 **[pm8:33] Mercy:** I’ll go there next time. I wanted to try this one first

 **[pm8:33] Mercy:** I’m looking over the menu here and I can’t decide what to order...

 **[pm8:34] D.Va:**  get noodles or something

 **[pm8:34] Mercy:** Very helpful, thank you

 

Angela’s words are dripping with sarcasm and it makes Hana cackle.

She can’t help but tease Angela sometimes, push her buttons a bit.

Hana bites her lip around a lazy smirk as she types out her reply.

 

 **[pm8:36] D.Va:**  fine. how about a little game then?

 **[pm8:36] D.Va:**  i pick two numbers at random, one for the page and one for the meal

 **[pm8:36] D.Va:**  and you get to order whatever it lands on

 **[pm8:36] D.Va:**  kind of like a little gamble with fate ;) what do you say?

 **[pm8:37] Mercy:**  How will you know I am not cheating?

 **[pm8:37] D.Va:**  you won’t

 **[pm8:37] Mercy:**  How can you be so sure?

 **[pm8:38] D.Va:**  because i trust you and i trust that you value that

 **[pm8:38] Mercy:** You are right about that. I do value your trust.

 

Angela sends her another one of those happy cat stickers she’s grown so fond of lately, and Hana grins to herself as she types out her next message.

 

 **[pm8:40] D.Va:** perfect! I hope it’ll be as delicious as what i’m having, look

 

She goes into her camera app and snaps a picture of the barbecued meat on the grill.

She is getting in position to take a picture of herself, too – winning smile, check; victory sign, check.

She gets so absorbed, completely tuning out everything else that she’s surprised when she finds that Lena is right beside her, giggling.

“Did you just take a picture of the food, love?”

Hana jumps in her seat, fumbling with the phone in her hands. “What!  _No_ ,” she says quickly and very unconvincingly since her first instinct is to cup a hand around the screen to prevent Lena from sneaking a peek.

 _Great_. Now it definitely looks as if she’s been doing exactly what she’s been doing.

Hana thumbs off her screen and places the phone back on the table.

Clearing her throat, she straightens in her seat then pretends to examine her nails with what she hopes is a look of great nonchalance.

Lena snorts a laugh, patting Hana on the shoulder. “Calm down, love. I’m not lookin’.” She covers her eyes with her other hand and proceeds to bump her knee against the table, making the plates wobble a little, as she swings herself back down into the chair across from Hana. “The only beef I need between us is the one right  _here_ ,” she declares, venturing to grab a steaming slice of meat right off the grill with two fingers. She quickly shoves it into her mouth, grimacing when she undoubtedly burns her tongue. “Ack! Hot, hot, hot!  _Too hot_!” She licks her fingers clean and sucks on them to relieve the pain, brows furrowed, with a pained expression.

“No shit, Sherlock,” Hana quips, not bothering to hide the sarcasm in her voice. She rolls her eyes, but the smile on her face gives her away. She can’t find it in herself to be truly annoyed, obviously. She is glad they’ve gone past that weird tension from earlier and are now back to their usual selves. _What was that all about?_   _What’s up with you?_   _Who is that ‘someone’ exactly?_  Hana doesn’t ask. For once, she bites her tongue and holds back the questions.

She takes the pair of scissors and the metal chopsticks and leans over to cut the slices into smaller bits while Lena follows her movements with her own chopsticks, letting them hover over the various pieces of meat before choosing her target. She hums a little tune under her breath as she chews for a moment, eyeing Hana with bright eyes, her lips quirking up into an honest smile. She raises her pint of beer in a toast and Hana raises her glass, too.

“Cheers, love! To your victory and the many more to come!”

And just like that, the atmosphere lightens as they continue to chit-chat.

Hana is on her last slice of pork rib when her phone buzzes on the table. She licks the grease from her lips and wipes her fingers off on a napkin before eagerly tapping her screen awake to find a picture Angela sent her. As it turns out,  _she did get noodles after all._

And for some reason, it’s the sort of thing that makes fondness rise up inside of Hana’s belly like a wave, or like a burst of little bubbles, warm and prickling. It makes her smile as she tries to picture Angela in her mind, sitting at the restaurant, eating right now. Hana finds comfort in the thought that it’s almost as if like they are eating together. Even if they are miles away from each other, at the end of the day, it’s just like Lena said: they are stranded underneath the same sky. And Hana thinks it again –  _maybe_ – like a wish, like a hopeful sigh.

 _Maybe_ , one day, they’ll meet again.


	8. Quantum Entanglement

The hotel room is quiet. Save for the sound of pen scratching over medical forms, there is not much else filling the silence.

Angela shifts slightly from where she’s curled up on the couch. She can feel a crick in her neck and how tense her shoulders have become from hunching over the stack of paperwork that’s been piling up over the past two days. Her reading glasses are uncomfortably perched on the tip of her nose as she squints down at the clipboard in her hands, trying to decipher whatever she had written there but her usual cursive is starting to look more like a frenzied scribble—words and phrases clustered all over the place, blurred like ink smudges before her eyes.

She sighs and clicks her pen shut, sets the chart aside and peels her reading glasses off, rubbing gently at the indent they’ve left on her skin. She glances at the empty cup of coffee that’s sitting on the glass table next to the couch. Her laptop whirrs softly, humming in sleep mode, next to all files that still need to be logged electronically, one by one. It's certainly not a fun pastime for a Saturday night, but it needs to be done.

She stifles a yawn, easing herself off the sofa to go refill her cup. Her tense muscles begin to relax a little as she takes the first few sips. Her nostrils tingle at the familiar strong smell of filter coffee that rises and slowly dissipates into the still air of the room. She drinks slowly, savors the taste, as she looks out the window, at the sky that has already gone fully dark and the lights of the city that make the young night glow.

She isn't sure for how long she’s been standing there when she catches sight of her phone lighting up on the coffee table.

Angela sets the empty mug down and finds herself smiling down at the message on the screen.

 

 **[pm8:23] D.Va:**  ‘ _can you talk right now?_ ’

 

Angela sends an affirmative reply and half a minute later the phone starts ringing.

Hana’s name flashes on the bright screen and Angela answers right away, “Hello?”

 

“ _Hey there, doctor! How was your day?_ ”

 

Hearing Hana ask that so casually never fails to make Angela smile.

“Quite alright,” she replies as she tries to find a comfortable position back on the cushions of her couch, with a warm blanket draped over her legs and the laptop propped up on her lap. The phone is wedged between her shoulder and her ear while her hands are getting busy with typing. Angela feels considerably more relaxed than before as she starts to leisurely go through all the remaining paperwork. “How about you?”

And so Hana tells her about her day too and they keep talking, about this and that. Minutes tick by, one topic leads to another, and it feels natural, the way their conversation flows. They talk a little about Angela’s college years, which were fairly unremarkable ones at a prestigious university in Switzerland, where she buckled down, worked hard and graduated with honors.

" _Wait, wait—hold on a sec. You're telling me you never broke the rules, like, not even once?"_

"Well." Angela clears her throat. "I never said I  _didn't,_  now, did I?" She can hear Hana hum in response, prompting Angela to carry on. "It was nothing too wild or dangerous per se, but I did have a few 'drunken escapades' that I'm not particularly proud of." And yet, despite saying that, Angela finds herself chuckling at the memories that cross her thoughts which only goes to spike Hana's curiosity even more.

" _Oh, c'mon! You can't just leave the juicy parts out! Give me some details~!"_

There's an inexplicable rush of embarrassment that comes with the realization that by revealing said details to Hana, Angela would have to mention a past love affair that involved her roommate at the time, who, well, also happened to be a woman...

Angela moves the phone to her other ear while she shifts a little in her spot on the couch. No doubt in her mind that Hana wouldn't judge her sexual orientation and yet, for some reason, she feels uneasy and hesitant to talk about it. "Perhaps, on another occasion...?"

Hana huffs. " _You can be such a tease sometimes, you know that?"_

There's a short pause, and then, " _Fine. But I'm taking it as a promise so you better not forget about it, okay?_

"It's a promise," Angela agrees.

Then, eager to change the subject and not let an awkward silence take over the line, she mentions the first next thing that comes to mind as she underlines a sentence from the file she's holding. "Have you ever heard of medical bloopers?"

" _Not really? But I'm guessing they are some kind of mistakes doctors make? I don't know._ "

"Yes, that's exactly what they are," Angela tells her, going as far as recounting some of the most memorable ones she's read over the years.

Hana can't stop laughing and Angela laughs with her, hopelessly pulled in by her infectious giggles.

She has to pause and catch her breath before adding, "And I quote, ' _discharge status: alive, but without my permission.'_ ”

“ _Holy shit_ ,” Hana chokes out between laughs. “ _Oh man, they should put that on a t-shirt or something._ ” She sniffs and Angela can picture her wiping away invisible tears of laughter. It’s such an endearing image that it makes Angela smile around the pen in her mouth.

Listening to Hana move around, she thinks she can hear the faint rush of waves somewhere in the background.

“Are you outside right now?”

“ _Uh,_   _yeah, I went out for a walk on the beach._ ”

“Oh.” Angela immediately tries not to picture Hana in a swimsuit but by trying to suppress the thought, her mind flashes back to that bubblegum commercial and it’s suddenly too hot in the room. She can feel a blush creeping up her neck and all the way up to the tips of her ears.

 _For crying out loud_ _, it’s already October!_   _No one wears a swimsuit at the beach in October!_

She winces as she mistypes something, plucking the pen out from her mouth. Her eyes scan over the document for any other careless mistakes she might have made. She finds several. This is ridiculous. She's sabotaging her own work here and it's getting not only desperately embarrassing but a little out of hand as well. She bites back a sigh as she closes her eyes for a moment, trying to quell the burn in her cheeks. 

_Get a hold of yourself, Ziegler._

 

Hana’s voice doesn't register again until Angela manages to pull herself out of her frenzied thoughts.

“— _the weather is not so bad either. The sky is so clear tonight, I can actually see the stars_ ,” Hana tells her, “ _I wish you could see this._ ”

Angela turns to gaze out the window. Tokyo is electric at night. The skyline is alive with neon colors but she doesn’t see a single star.

“I wish I could, too...”

“ _This will probably sound like a random question but have you tried the indoor pool yet?”_

“Oh?” Angela chews her bottom lip, then swipes her tongue over it. “Why do you ask?”

“ _Uh, no reason, I was just curious_ ,  _is all_.”

“Is that so? Well, to answer your question, I haven't tried it yet,” she admits, setting aside a sheaf of papers. “Do you think I should?”

“ _Yeah, totally! I mean, why not? Take a break and go relax there for an hour or two._ ”

Angela hums, considering the idea. She steals a glance at the clock. It’s a little past 9 PM. “Very well, then. I think I will.”

This may be as good an occasion as any, she supposes. Deciding that the rest of those medical files can wait until work the next morning, she saves her progress, carefully closing down all her work programs and making mental notes about what still needs to be done.

She climbs from the couch on sleep-numb legs and pads barefoot to the closet. “Will you give me a minute to change?"

“ _Right, yeah, of course, I’ll just—I’ll call you back when you get there, okay? Just, uh, let me know when you do._ ”

Angela chuckles. “Of course.”

 

 

Ten minutes later find her waiting for the elevator in nothing but a swimsuit and a white silk robe loosely tied around her waist. 

 

 **[pm9:12] D.Va:**  are you there yet ?

 

Angela shakes her head in amusement. This is the third time Hana asked her that since she hung up.

 

 **[pm9:12] Mercy** : Almost.

 

She steps inside the elevator as someone else exits, and presses the button for the 47th floor, feeling her stomach twist and turn. Her nerves tingle with a little nervousness and perhaps, if she is being perfectly honest with herself, an intrigued sliver of curiosity and anticipation. She's only ever seen this so-called 'sky pool' in online pictures and that one pamphlet she found in her room when she first arrived at this hotel.

 

There are only three other people beside herself when she gets there — two of them swimming laps, another one reading.

It's a calm and relaxing atmosphere with a stunning panoramic view of Tokyo at night that can be seen through the floor-to-ceiling glass walls. The moonlight seeps in and drapes everything in an eerily romantic glow. The pool is bright blue and Angela can see straight to the bottom of it where white and navy mosaic tiles are distorted by the water, as she quietly makes her way to one of the surrounding deck chairs.

 

 **[pm9:15] Mercy:**  I am here now

 

It only takes seconds for Hana’s reply to pop up on the screen.

 

 **[pm9:15] D.Va** : k see you in a minute

 

Now, Angela is well aware that it's not like they are meeting face to face, that they still have miles and miles between them, and it isn't even their first video call, and yet still, those words send a shiver of eagerness crawling up her spine. As soon as her phone starts ringing, she instinctively tightens the bathrobe around herself and hurriedly combs fingers through her hair, pushing it back from her face.

She tries to calm her erratic heart by taking a deep breath before answering the call but her heart is anything but steady the moment Hana’s face comes into view on the little screen. It’s as if every other detail of the world fades into the background and it’s just Hana and that infectious little smile of hers as she greets Angela with a wave and a cocky tilt of her head. Her hair is pulled back into a high pony-tail, her bangs askew due to the wind, her cheeks red, and Angela can’t help it—she’s staring.  _She knows_. But then again, Hana doesn’t say anything else either.

They just sort of blink at each other until Angela decides to brush the slight awkwardness aside with a clear of her throat.

"It’s good to see you,” she says, wondering if Hana can tell just how much she means it.

“ _Definitely,_ ” Hana smirks as she brings her face closer to the screen and cranes her neck. “ _I can't see your swimsuit, though?”_

 ~~~~“I don't plan on swimming,” Angela admits, weakly.

Hana gives her a long, skeptical look followed by a small shrug.

Her eyes dance with a challenge and a hint of mischief as she lowers her voice and half-whispers, “ _Well, that’s too bad._ ”

Her voice is ripe with just the right amount of implication, her gaze blatantly appreciative, and Angela feels her whole body flush with heat.

She knows that Hana is only fooling around. And she  _should_  know better than to want to play along but that's just the thing; Hana has a certain flirtiness to her personality that often invites Angela to  _dare_  and tread on dangerous ground, against her better judgement. 

Whenever Hana would tease her like this, truth is, there's a thrill to it that's incredibly hard to resist.

“Well. If I didn’t know any better I’d say you were really looking forward to seeing me in a swimsuit?”

Angela quirks a playful brow, briefly dropping the robe off one side to flash a bare shoulder.

“ _Psh, yeah right! Why would I want to see that? I know what a swimsuit looks like!”_

Hana stammers and Angela can hear the sudden defensiveness in her voice.

“ _I just meant_ —” She tries again, then shakes her head. “ _Never mind,_ ” she huffs when she notices Angela’s amused reaction. She shoots her a death glare and squares her shoulders. “ _Anyway! Here’s a fun fact. You can see my apartment building from here. Want me to show you?”_

Angela nods and Hana slowly spins the camera around to show her the skyscrapers and then the rest of her surroundings, too.

The beach is dotted with people, scattered along the shoreline. The sand stretches on for miles and the sea is wide and almost as dark as the night sky, with only the sound of the waves and the wedge of moonlight across the surface of the water giving it away.

Angela hums along, impressed. “You must have quite the view from your room.”

“ _Yeah, it’s pretty great. I can give you, like, a virtual tour of my room too sometime if you want?”_

Angela smiles. “I’d like that.”

The floor tiles are cool beneath her bare feet as she tiptoes to the edge of the pool.

She dips her legs inside, warm water coming up to wrap around her calves. She lets her gaze follow the slow ripple of waves across the pale surface of the pool as she listens to Hana continue talking and pointing out things of interest while she walks.

Hana tells her about the upcoming international film festival that takes place annually in Busan on that very beach. “They’ll set up lights and cameras everywhere around here—with a red carpet and everything.” She uses her free hand to sketch everything she says in the air, getting more and more energetic as she speaks.  _It’s cute_ , Angela thinks. Hana seems so in her element right now, so comfortable in her own skin.

Even more so when she begins to talk about how the whole e-sports craze first started there, about the time her father took her to her first live Starcraft tournament, when she was still too young to know what was really happening. Angela can easily picture the scene in her mind's eye; she sees a giant stadium thrumming with life and activity, frenzied fans everywhere, a young Hana cheering alongside her father.

She is basking in Hana's excitement.

Angela knows how much Hana enjoys doing what she does but it's something that's incredibly demanding in its own way; it's tiring and it shows. At times, there's this weariness that Hana carries around like a weight, but nothing can hide the joy in her eyes whenever the subject of pro-gaming comes up. There is a new lightness to her every time—a dizzy, expansive relief—that Angela can’t help but find both amusing and endearing.

 

“ _Sorry_ ,” Hana says with an embarrassed smile after realizing she’s been doing most of the talking.

Angela shakes her head and smiles fondly. “Don’t be. It’s interesting.”

And it’s true, she realizes. The more she finds out, the more she wants to know.

" _You really mean that?"_

There’s a little smile quirking up the corner of Hana's mouth that's almost self-conscious. 

Angela gives a reassuring nod. “I enjoy hearing you talk,” she says, her voice blurring in with the soft lull of the pool water.

Hana opens her mouth to say something but then quickly glances away, clearing her throat.

She keeps fiddling with one of the strings from her hoodie until something else catches her attention and she looks back at Angela with a joyfui gleam in her eye. “ _Take a look at this,_ ” she says as she turns the camera around so Angela can see the reflection of the moon streaked across the water like the wake of a boat. She can clearly hear the sound of the waves crashing against the shore. Hana sticks her head back in the frame with a confident grin. “ _You know t_ _hese waves slowly roll in from the Sea of Japan, right? I was just thinking that, you could totally send a wave my way!"_

Even as a joke, it sounds so ridiculous that Angela can barely contain the disbelieving chuckle that threatens to escape her lips when she says, “I'm sorry, but that doesn’t make sense since I’m—”

Hana interrupts her with the slightest eye roll and a smile playing on her lips.

“ _It doesn’t **have**  to make sense,_” she says. “ _You can just imagine_.”

And maybe it's in the way Hana says that as she stands there, so close to the edge of the surf, with the breeze ruffling the hair on her forehead.

She looks completely untroubled.

On her end, Angela looks down at her feet, watching as tiny waves ripple out across the surface of the pool.

It's a crazy thought. But it does bring an undeniable sense of excitement that makes her stomach wobble and her heart flutter.

_Well._

That's until Hana shrieks all of a sudden, fumbling with the phone.

It looks like she stumbles backwards when the sea rolls in and she's desperately trying to avoid getting wet.

" _Oh, shit._ " 

She must have tripped and fell down because there is some blank footage and Angela can't see anything until Hana angles the camera back to her face. Holding her phone out at arm’s length, she messily pushes her hair away from her face; pony-tail all but gone.

" _Okay,_   _that—_ " She pauses to cover a sneeze with the sleeve of her hoodie. " _ **That** was a crazy wave_."

"Bless you." Angela giggles, even as she asks, "Are you alright?"

Hana nods then wrinkles her nose, about to sneeze again.

Then again.

And they both break into a fit of laughter that carries on for several minutes.

“Bless you.”

“ _Phew!_ _Thanks_.” Hana switches the phone from one hand to another, rubbing at her nose with her sleeve. “ _Should’ve brought my selfie stick._ ”

“Let's hope you don't catch a cold.”

“ _Nah, I’ll be fine. Don’t worry,"_ she says, though her breath visibly curls in the night air.

“ _You know..._ _I always have the weirdest thoughts when I come to the_   _beach..._ "She scoops up a handful of sand, sifting through it with her thumb. There is a small pause, a span of a heartbeat where Hana tilts her head the slightest bit, a considering look on her expressive face.

Angela can see her lips moving, see that she is murmuring something else under her breath as she stares at the grains in her palm.

For all that Hana tends to be an open book, always so terribly earnest, Angela finds the girl’s thoughts an indecipherable code sometimes. It’s as if she is written in a completely different language, open for anybody to see but understood only by those who speak her tongue.

" _I_ _think I probably got that from my mom. She used to do this a lot. Whenever we’d come for a stroll..._ ”

Hana cups her hand, then tips it to one side, letting the sand pour back out onto the beach.

After a little while, she looks up again and stares right ahead. " _I_ _t was almost like... the sea opened her mind to all kinds of possibilities, you know?_  " She utters quietly, the words almost lost to the breeze. " _Maybe that’s why she loved it so much.._."

One of her shoulders lift in a shrug; the movement so young, so vulnerable that it makes Angela ache. 

Hana rarely speaks of her mother—or at the very least, not as often as she does about her father. There is a lot Angela doesn't know but what she _does_  know, is that Hana's mother was a marine geologist who died in a scuba diving accident when Hana was sixteen. A fairly recent tragedy. The aftermath of which Hana clearly still has a hard time dealing with.

Angela opens her mouth to say something comforting or that she understands, perhaps even something impressively wise. But everything she can think of—every trite piece of advice or bit of canned wisdom—hits alarmingly close to home for her, too. After all, they are both grief-stricken in their own way.  _And what can she say, really?_  It never truly gets easier, that's the harsh truth. It never stops hurting altogether. This is something Angela knows from personal experience. She sincerely understands.

Her hand twitches with the urge to touch Hana, to let her know in some way. But it's impossible, and that thought is a depressing one in itself.

 

" _Anyway,"_   Hana says, at last. " _I should probably get going. It's pretty late_."

She gets up, brushing sand off of her jeans. Her face suddenly lights up as if someone switched on a light bulb in her head.

" _Hold up!_ _It's almost 10 PM !"_  She looks positively excited when she asks, “ _Wanna see something cool?”_

Angela nods, amused.

Hana flips the camera around and whispers, “ _Okay, w_ _ait for it_.”

Then, in a matter of seconds, Angela hears music starting to play, blurring in with the waves lapping gently in the background.

The whole bridge gradually turns into a vivid carnival of colors that stretch across the gleaming surface of the dark water.

There are ever-shifting patterns of lights that ignite the night sky as they move to the vibrant beat of the song.

Angela feels all lit up inside.

She can't stop smiling as Hana’s face skids back into view to ask, “ _Pretty cool, right?”_

Angela takes in a deep breath.

“Yes,” she whispers, the word nearly catching in her throat. More than that, she thinks, it's beautiful. And her gaze is drawn to the shimmer in Hana's eyes, the freshness of her cheeks, the way she bites her lip... Everything seems oddly surreal, and Angela can see the pure magic in it.

In that moment, she can clearly understand why someone – anyone – might fall under Hana's spell.

 _How easy it would be... to fall in love with this girl_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you who may be curious to know, the Diamond Bridge in Busan really does have a LED Lights Show:  
> https://youtu.be/IgUH-gxknzM?t=25s


End file.
